The Space Between Us
by bingblot
Summary: She needed to figure out a way to do this, a way to take the time to heal, for herself (that she still believed she needed), and still give Castle more, give him a reason to wait for her. AU for the summer of "Rise."
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: As always, all things "Castle" belongs to ABC & Co.

Author's Note: Back with a new fic, less fluffy this time. An AU for the summer after Beckett's shooting because obviously "Rise" hasn't been written about enough.

 **The Space Between Us**

 _Chapter 1_

"Katie, lunch is almost ready."

The sound of her dad's voice from the kitchen of his cabin startled Kate out of the half-doze she'd drifted into as she lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling. She'd been trying to read but found she couldn't find a comfortable position sitting up and the various aches of her body had distracted her from her book and made it impossible to concentrate anyway. So she'd given up and returned to her bed to lie down—again, since she spent most of her day lying down these days. She hated it but it seemed like the only position her body could tolerate for any length of time, provided she didn't twist or turn over or otherwise do anything.

Moving slowly, gingerly, as she needed to do everything these days, she pushed herself so she could slide her legs off the bed and then, after another moment, levered herself up until she was sitting upright, biting back a gasp at the pain that stabbed through her at the motion. She had never realized how much upper body strength it normally took to sit up or the way it pulled and stretched the muscles in her side but now she knew, would never take it for granted again. She waited a long few seconds until the pain subsided before she pushed herself to her feet and then slowly, slowly straightened upright.

Ow, shit!

The pain stole her breath—again—and she blinked back the unwilling tears pricking at the back of her eyes, the tears she so rarely cried but now always seemed so close to the surface.

She hated this, hated this so much! She tried to tell herself to be grateful that she'd managed to recover even as much as she had, that she was out of the hospital, that she could, finally, stand up without her dad to help her (well, okay, so that wasn't strictly true in that it still hurt more than she would ever admit to anyone to stand up on her own but she flatly refused to have her dad help her more because she knew how much he worried about her and she didn't want to worry him, had insisted he no longer needed to help her stand up for that very reason.) But she couldn't quite bring herself to actually feel grateful because it still hurt so much and she was so damn exhausted all the time and she hated this so much and she wanted… wanted her life back.

She wanted not to be so weak, wanted to recover her strength, wanted to be able to stand up without pain, wanted to be able to walk for more than 15 minutes without feeling like she would collapse. She wanted to be able to sleep without nightmares. She wanted to be at the precinct—even without Captain Montgomery, she thought with a stab of grief and loss—the precinct was still her home, with her coworkers and her team. She wanted her _mother_ … She wanted…

Castle.

No, no, she couldn't think about Castle, wouldn't think about him.

Kate shoved the thought of him aside—that way lay too much emotion, too much hurt, too much longing—and instead concentrated on walking and oh god, she hated that too, that an act as basic as walking took so much effort and energy, just putting one foot in front of the other.

But she made her slow, shuffling way out of her room and into the main room of the cabin, heading towards the kitchen where her dad was making lunch. Tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches, from the smell of it. (Her dad's cooking skills were rudimentary so he was sticking with the simple things he knew how to do. Sandwiches for lunch and basic casseroles or pastas for dinner. Which was getting repetitive but it didn't matter since she didn't have much of an appetite anyway so she was mostly forcing herself to eat a modicum of food at every meal to assuage her dad's worry and not out of any real desire to eat.)

"Looks good, Dad," she commented, manufacturing as much of a smile as she could manage, trying to sound like her usual self.

Her dad shot her one of his searching looks but all he said was, "Sit down, Katie. It's almost ready."

She made her way carefully around the table, getting herself a glass of water, before moving to the table and lowering herself, gingerly, into the seat. She was ridiculously tired again and she hated that but she couldn't let her dad see, didn't want him to worry more than he already did, so she only drank a little water and carefully kept her expression blank.

"Katie?"

"Yes, Dad?"

Her dad hesitated and she glanced at him, a sudden niggle of tension shooting through her. Oh, this wasn't going to be one of her dad's usual questions about how she was feeling.

"I want to ask you something and you can tell me it's none of my business but I thought I'd ask."

Oh god. "Okay," she answered cautiously.

"Have you talked to Rick at all?"

The sound of Castle's name startled her so much that her hand jerked in spite of herself, water sloshing out of her glass and onto her hand and the table, and she hastily busied herself wiping up the small spill as she strove to get control of her suddenly rabbiting heart.

"To Castle? No, why?" she asked trying to sound normal and terribly afraid she was failing miserably, her voice changing in a way she couldn't describe over his name. His name that she hadn't said aloud in weeks, no matter how it echoed in her thoughts. (5 weeks, 6 days, and around 2 hours since she'd sent him away in the hospital. 5 weeks, 6 days, and 2 hours since she'd last seen him. And damn it, why was she so conscious of that? Why was her mind persisting in counting how long it had been?)

She felt her dad's glance but steadfastly avoided looking at him, focusing instead on her glass of water.

"I just think you should. He cares about you, Katie."

He had said he loved her.

A sudden image of his face slammed into her mind, his terrified, beseeching eyes. His voice. _Kate, I love you. I love you, Kate._ She felt the burning pain in her chest, her hand automatically flattening against the bandage over her damaged heart. She couldn't breathe, her lungs felt as if they'd collapsed. She couldn't see, her vision going blurry, but she remembered the blue sky above her seeming to blend into the blue of his eyes, his face the last thing she saw before blackness.

Oh god. No no no, she couldn't do this now, couldn't have a flashback here, in front of her dad. Her dad! She desperately latched onto the thought of her dad—at least, enough of her remained that she remembered to be concerned for him—and she forced her eyes open—when had she closed them?—forced herself to slow her breathing, sucking air in and then holding it for five seconds—one two three four five—and then out again. Inhale, hold, exhale. Inhale, hold, exhale. She focused her eyes on the grains of the wooden table, the water rings from the time her dad had forgotten to use a coaster before putting down his drinks. Forced herself to look around, opening her senses to her surroundings, to ground her in the present—the sound of the birds outside, the stripes on her dad's shirt, the solid wood of the table.

She gripped the table so hard her knuckles hurt but slowly, she felt the panic subside. She was fine, she was alive. She was safe, in her dad's cabin, and no one knew where she was. She was alive. She could breathe again. She felt the fog of memory and unreasoning terror dissipate from her mind.

"Katie? Katie, are you okay?"

She let out a breath, blinking, and then turned her head to look at her dad, managing a somewhat wan smile. "Yeah, dad, it was just… a twinge," she lied. "I think I moved wrong."

Her dad gave her a narrow-eyed look that told her he was debating whether and how much to believe her but after a long moment, he appeared to accept that, true or not, she wasn't about to say more, and he returned his attention to their lunch, ladling the soup into bowls and plating up the sandwiches.

He brought first the soup and then the sandwiches over to the table before getting his own glass of water and sitting down.

Kate managed a smile for her dad. "Thanks. This looks good."

"Go ahead and eat, Katie. There's plenty more soup if you want it."

"I'll keep that in mind." She forced another smile, although she suspected they both knew she wouldn't ask for more. It was as much as she could do to eat the food her dad gave her and sometimes she couldn't even manage that. But her dad always offered more and it had become something of a polite fiction between them.

They ate in silence for a while and Kate was nibbling at her sandwich when her dad spoke again. "I saw him in the hospital, you know."

She sucked in a sharp breath and narrowly avoided choking on the bite of her sandwich. She forced herself to chew and then swallow before she asked, "Who?" Playing dumb in a way she never did and she hated it but she needed the extra seconds to try to get herself under control.

Castle. As always, the thought of him brought a tidal wave of emotion swamping her like a tsunami, the fear, the yearning, the grief, the hope, the… love. She froze at the word but she knew it was true. She was too tired these days to fight it, didn't have the energy to deny it. She felt absurd tears pricking at the back of her eyes and blinked them back, putting her sandwich down with preternatural control as if her control over such a small movement would aid her control of her emotions.

"Rick."

She ducked her head and shut her eyes, focusing on regulating her breathing. Inhale, hold, exhale. She could do this, could listen to her dad without falling apart. She had to do this. "You mean, while I was… in surgery?" When she'd died before she'd been brought back to life, like some zombie or Frankenstein's monster.

"No, not then. I mean, he was there then too but I meant, after. It was about a week later, just before you were transferred out of the ICU."

A week later. Wait. Her breath hitched. But that would have been… what, more than 5 days after she'd… sent him away. He'd been at the hospital? He'd come back? But… She jerked her head up to stare at her dad. "But I didn't…" She hadn't seen him, hadn't known. Hadn't called him.

"You were asleep, Katie," her dad explained gently. "It was one of those times when I just stayed for a little while because you were sleeping before I left and then I saw Rick. He was on the other side of the nurse's station, where he could just see you but even if you were awake, you probably couldn't see him."

"Oh." He'd come back to the hospital. Ridiculously, she felt a little tendril of warmth inside her at the thought. And it was so completely hypocritical and stupid and irrational of her because she had been the one to send him away and told him she needed time and she should feel annoyed at him for wriggling around her request and returning to the hospital but she couldn't do it. He'd come back to see her, to check on her, even as he'd tried to honor her request, do what she'd asked. Obeying the letter of her request and giving her space, even if he'd technically broken the spirit of it. How very… Castle-like of him. Always finding a way around rules he didn't like. He didn't listen to directions—except this time, he had. Just as he still was.

For a moment, she couldn't decide if she wanted to laugh or cry at his deciding to listen to her now.

Ridiculous. And so unlike her, because she'd always despised indecisive people who told people to do something and then blamed them for listening.

"He was so worried about you."

The image of Castle's distraught face hovering above her flashed into her mind again and she forced herself not to think about it, focused on the half-eaten remains of her sandwich on her plate instead as if her future depended on her memorizing the pattern of her bite marks.

"He looked as if he hadn't slept in a week."

Her breath hitched again. "Did he… ask about me?" she asked in a small voice and then could have kicked herself for asking such an inane question and sounding so needy.

"He didn't need to. I told him how you were doing as we left the hospital together. And Katie, Rick is a young man, you know, but that day, he didn't look much like it. He walked as if it were physically painful for him."

She sucked in her breath, her dad's sparse but vivid description hitting her like a blow. It was so… wrong, so un-Castle-like. He was so youthful, in his outlook, in his behavior, the perennial man-child. She knew his usual gait, the slight bounce of his steps, the jauntiness she associated with him, and she couldn't really imagine him walking painfully.

"I know you're having a hard time, Katie, and I'm not trying to make you do anything. I'm just saying, maybe you should think about calling him. I'm sure he's wondering how you're doing and it might do you some good to talk to a friend too."

"I'll think about it, Dad." It was as much as she could say.

The rest of their lunch passed mostly in silence but she did think about it, think about him. As she hadn't really allowed herself to think about him in weeks.

She'd tried not to think about Castle—which, translated, meant she thought about him almost constantly but always forced herself to think about other things until she thought about him again and the whole cycle repeated itself—but her dad's words had thrown open the flood gates and now she couldn't think about anything else.

Because she missed him. Missed his smile and his humor and his silly jokes and his warmth. She missed his coffee and his zany theories. She missed his eyes—and god, how ridiculous was that? She hadn't even known it was possible to miss someone's eyes but somehow, it was. She missed the way his blue shirts echoed and intensified the color of this eyes, missed the spark that always lit them from within when the pieces fell into place to solve a case. Missed the way he looked at her as if she was the center of the world.

She just missed _him_ so much. Missing him had set up that ever-present sort of dull ache inside her that reminded her of the way she missed her mother.

And god, that terrified her. How could she miss him that much? How had he come to mean that much to her, that she would miss him the way she missed her mother? Her mother, whom she had loved more than anyone?

She missed him—but she didn't want to see him, let alone talk to him, right now. She knew she'd promised to call him and knew she was breaking her promise every day and she'd never meant to do it, never meant to go so long without contacting him, but every day kept passing and she didn't call him and then it seemed like the longer it went, the harder it became to call. And she just couldn't do it. She hated the idea of him seeing her like this and she was afraid, even terrified, of him and what he'd said to her, afraid he might not really have meant the words, afraid he'd only said them because she was dying, afraid that what he thought he loved was her unavailability, this whole friends-and-something-more dance they were doing. (But somehow, when she remembered the look in his eyes, she had to believe that he loved her.) But she was afraid of that too because he thought she was extraordinary and she was afraid she could only end up disappointing him and he would get tired of dealing with the darkness and danger of her life, the fractured edges of her psyche. And she was afraid of the sure knowledge that if she ever let him into her life fully, she would be utterly lost because, perhaps most of all, she was terrified by the magnitude of all she felt for him.

But oh, how she missed him.

She went for a "walk" after lunch as had become her habit, her dad having to help her down the couple steps of the back porch, and then hovering until she took a few slow, careful steps and then waved him away. Her "walk" was more of a shuffle since she moved so slowly she would have made an arthritic tortoise look like Speedy Gonzalez in comparison and she had to stop every few steps to catch her breath but she forced herself to do it, pushed herself to take a couple more steps each day.

And again, the stark visceral reality of her physical infirmity reminded her why she wasn't calling Castle, didn't want to see him, or rather, didn't want him to see her right now. Didn't want him to see her like this, this pitiful wounded invalid barely able to shuffle a few steps on her own before the pain got to be too much. This wasn't her, wasn't the Detective Kate Beckett he knew so well. She felt like a ghost of herself and she didn't want him to see her like this; everything in her rebelled at the thought of seeing pity or sympathy in his eyes. Those eyes that had looked at her with lust and admiration and affection, looked at her as if she was the most beautiful woman in the world, looked at her as if she was a super-hero…

Maybe that was prideful of her, wanting only to be strong and capable in front of him, wanting to be the Detective Beckett he thought was extraordinary. But it wasn't only about pride either. It wasn't only about herself but about him.

Because she was so helpless right now, needed so much care and assistance. Her dad had dropped everything, taken a leave of absence from work to take care of her, and she wasn't happy about that but had accepted it because she needed the help too much and she'd known there was no chance she could persuade her dad to do anything else. But her dad was one thing; he was her family, had already seen her when she was sick, had helped her mom take care of her through all the various ailments and injuries of childhood—after she'd had her tonsils out, a severe cold that had almost become bronchitis in junior high, the time she'd sprained her ankle in high school.

Castle was… different. She couldn't impose on him so much. She knew he would help her if she asked him, didn't doubt that. He was, whatever else, a good, kind man and he liked to help people and… and he cared about her (loved her). He would do whatever she asked. But that was the problem. Because she didn't want to be a burden, on him or anyone. He had a daughter to take care of, a mother to look after, a life of his own, and she would not—could not—take advantage of his kindness.

And then too, he _deserved_ more than the broken version of herself she was now. Deserved more than the weak invalid who sometimes felt as if she were clinging to her sanity by her fingertips.

And she _wanted_ to be stronger for him, wanted to be the person he somehow believed she was, the one who, as he'd said, amazed him with the depths of her strength and her heart. Those words he'd said to her in LA came back to her again and again these days when she felt so helpless and so weak and she could only be amazed, in her turn, and humbled that that was how he saw her. And she wanted—god, she wanted to be that version of herself, the Kate Beckett he saw and believed in. The Kate Beckett that deserved him, with all his intelligence and his humor and his capacity for fun and his strength and his loyalty and his compassion. She wanted to be stronger, needed to be whole again so she could stand with him, just as he had stood with her.

And then… When she was strong again, when she was something closer to the Kate Beckett he already believed she was…

But not now...

No, she told herself yet again, she wasn't ready. Not physically ready and not, to be honest, emotionally ready either. She needed to get better, needed to be stronger. For herself and, yes, for him too.

And then… and then she would call him, see him. And if he still wanted her, if he still… loved her…

She would see.

She made her slow, laborious way back to the cabin and, again, had to rely on her dad to help her up the couple steps to get inside. She was breathing hard and her chest ached and her side hurt. But she managed to make her way back to her room, lying down on her bed.

And for once, she allowed herself to think about what it would be like to have Castle with her, to be able to hold his hand in the times it hurt to so much as breathe, to be able to lean against his broad shoulders, to feel his strong arms around her, holding her up when she couldn't hold herself up. To have him here to make her smile and distract her from the physical pain with his silliness and his humor.

Oh, she wanted him with her but she couldn't have him, couldn't ask so much of him, couldn't burden him with her broken, damaged self.

She drifted into exhausted sleep and her last thought was of him.

 _~To be continued…~_

A/N 2: Apologies for all the introspection, especially as it's covering very familiar ground of getting into Beckett's head. Going AU for real in the next chapter (and, I hope, getting more interesting.) As always, thanks for reading.


	2. Chapter 2

Author's Note: Going fully AU from "Rise" now.

 **The Space Between Us**

 _Chapter 2_

Kate jerked awake with a sharp gasp, a strangled scream caught in her throat. Her chest felt tight, the blanket weighting her down, smothering her. She shoved the blanket aside and automatically tried to sit upright with the vague idea that it would help her breathe, feel less as if she were being suffocated. A spasm of agony shot through her at the unthinking movement and she collapsed backwards, tears starting to her eyes, her hand coming up to flatten against her chest.

She couldn't breathe, felt as if her chest was being squeezed, her lungs collapsing even as she tried desperately to suck in air. She couldn't. Her lungs had stopped working—oh god, why had they stopped working?!—she felt as if she were trying to suck molasses through a straw.

 _Breathe, Kate! In and out, in and out._

It was hard—everything in her body seemed to want to fight against it, to try to suck in more air—but this wasn't new to her—pathetically—and somehow, weirdly, the sharp stab of physical pain had cleared some of the fog of panic from her brain.

Breathe. And so she did, forcing herself desperately to regulate her breathing, in and out, fighting her way through the haze of dizziness, her thundering heartbeats.

Slowly, gradually, as the more immediate panic of suffocation subsided, her breathing becoming somewhat easier, jagged memories returned to her mind.

The cemetery. A distant crack of sound. Being tackled to the ground and then after catching her breath, trying to dislodge the heavy weight of Castle lying sprawled over her. "Castle? Castle!" He hadn't responded and she wasn't sure how she succeeded in wriggling out from under him, turning him over, to see the spreading wet patch darkening his black shirt, the blood, the realization. And then his eyes, his so blue eyes. "Kate, I love you…" The softest gasp. And then his eyes had gone blank and staring and he'd been gone. No, Castle!

Oh god. She gave a choking gasp, a spasm of unreasoning terror returning to her, the sight of his blank, staring eyes—those so blue eyes of his forever glazed over and void of any of the light that characterized him—returning to her, seared onto the inside of her eyelids. Castle, no, oh god, Castle.

She flattened her hand over the bandage on her chest, for the first time finding it a comfort, trying to calm herself, reminding herself that it hadn't happened like that. She was the one who'd been shot, not Castle. Castle was fine. He was fine.

She couldn't make herself believe it, the terror too visceral, the panic still edging into her mind, and before she'd consciously decided anything, she'd reached out a trembling hand to grasp her phone on the nightstand and powered it on with fingers that she had to fight to keep steady.

Her breathing was coming too fast, tears stinging her eyes, as she almost fumbled but managed to press the speed dial for Castle. She just needed to know, to make sure, that he was fine. He had to be fine.

She had almost gotten used to calming herself after experiencing—again—her own death but Castle's—no, she couldn't. Her own death she could face, but his was another thing entirely.

She needed to hear his voice. That was all.

The phone rang once, twice. _Castle, Castle, Castle…_ His name echoed in her mind with every heartbeat. She just needed Castle.

The phone rang again and again.

Why wasn't he answering? He always answered when she called. She couldn't remember the last time he hadn't picked up when she'd called. Even for body drops in the middle of the night, he always answered his phone when she called.

She felt another spike of irrational panic. Oh god, was something wrong? Why wasn't he answering?

He had to be fine. He just had to be. She couldn't face the alternative, that something might have happened to him when she wasn't even there, when she didn't know and couldn't do anything.

A tiny corner of her mind told her her fears were irrational, that just because he wasn't answering his phone didn't automatically mean something was wrong. He was a grown man, fully capable of taking care of himself. (No matter how silly he occasionally acted.) And he had Alexis too, both to keep him responsible and to keep her sensible eye on him.

But she still needed to hear his voice, just to be sure, the mental image of his blank staring eyes haunting her, shredding what little calm she had.

 _Hi, you've reached Rick Castle. Leave a message and I'll get back to you._

The sound of his familiar, cheerful voice slammed into her like a blow and she was suddenly crying, gasping sobs escaping her and she didn't know why but she couldn't help it. It might have been a belated reaction to her nightmare or her lingering terror that something was wrong and he wasn't okay or just the sheer emotion of having missed him so much and finally finally hearing his voice again, even if it was just a recording.

"Castle," she gasped but that was all. Any other words got caught in her throat and she could only sob and after a moment, belatedly hit the button with a shaking finger to end the call as she cried.

She'd heard his voice in her mind countless times in the last weeks, echoing in her thoughts, both waking and sleeping. Had thought about calling him every day, imagined hearing his voice again but she'd never imagined that the first sound of his voice in weeks would have been from his voice mail message. (She could probably count on her two hands the number of times she'd heard his voice mail message in the last couple years since meeting him, just a scant number of times, because he never ignored her phone calls.)

Was he—the thought suddenly occurred to her—could he have been avoiding her call now?

 _I'll call you…_

For once, this time, it was her own words that rang through her mind. Only she hadn't. She hadn't. She'd sent him away and she hadn't called and she suddenly wondered what he was thinking, how he felt with not having heard from her in so long.

Something inside her flinched at the thought.

She remembered the way he'd looked, sounded, in the hospital the last time she'd seen him, his hesitation, his worry, his disappointment. His hopefulness.

Because he'd believed her when she said she would call him. He'd trusted her. He'd… loved her.

And she'd… lied to him (she flinched a little) and sent him away and promised to call and then she hadn't.

But oh, she'd missed the sound of his voice. Even the bare sound of his voice mail message—even as it had been a disappointment because it hadn't been him—the so familiar tones of his recorded voice had still set off little sparks of happiness in her auditory synapses.

Oh she'd missed _him_.

But was he mad at her? What did he think of her now, after so many weeks?

She tried to tell herself not to dwell on it. She would find out soon enough. He would call her back soon enough. He had to. Even from the few times she'd had to leave him a message, he always returned her call shortly after. Within the hour, usually within 15 minutes.

He didn't call.

He didn't call through the rest of the afternoon or into the evening. She had a quiet dinner with her dad and then managed to sit through the first six innings of the radio broadcast of the Mets game with him before she'd had to retreat to her room. And he still hadn't called.

Something was wrong. Something had to be wrong.

Or he really was seriously angry at her. He had to be.

She found herself staring at her phone as if she could will it to ring. Her phone remained obdurately silent.

She had just decided that she was going to try calling him again and barring that, would try calling Alexis. She didn't know how the girl would react but Alexis would know what Castle was doing, if he was okay.

But before she could act on her resolution, she was startled as her phone finally rang and she snatched it up with hands that almost trembled and then let out a gasp, ridiculous absurd tears stinging her eyes. It was him. Castle.

"Castle?" Her voice came out on something of a gasp.

"Beckett, are you okay?"

It was him. It was really him. And if the sound of his recorded voice had still had a strong impact on her, she was momentarily glad that she was already lying down because she had the sudden suspicion that if she hadn't been, the sound of his voice now—alive, concerned—would have knocked her back.

"Castle," was all she could say again, a watery smile trembling on her lips.

"Yes, it's me," he answered, some frustration now tingeing his voice. "Beckett, say something. What's wrong? Are you okay?" he asked, his tone softening a little.

She caught her breath and struggled for some control. _Damn it, Kate, get a grip!_ She was acting like an idiot!

"I—I'm okay, Castle," she managed to say. "I'm just tired." The memory of saying that at the hospital suddenly returned to her—it had been true—but still, she'd used it as an excuse and then she hadn't called him for weeks. "Tired and sore," she amended quickly, inanely, as if the addition of the two words made all the difference.

She heard him let out a breath and could almost picture him slumping in relief. "Oh," was all he said for a moment. And then, "But you're… better now?"

"I'm getting better." Too slowly, but it wasn't untrue.

"Oh," he said again. "Good. I'm… glad." The words were awkward, sounded oddly tentative as if he had no idea what to say. It was so… unlike Castle.

Silence hummed over the line between them for a long minute. And that too was different, so different from the way things had been between them before. When was Castle ever at a loss for words? When had it ever been so awkward between them?

She abruptly hated the silence, hated the discomfiture it indicated. She wanted the old ease, the comfort, of their friendship back. Wanted things to go back the way they had been—at least, mostly—the enjoyment of his company, the way she'd looked forward to seeing him. "So, how have you been?" she blurted out finally, desperately, just needing to break the silence. With him, it was so unnatural, unsettling.

"How have I been?!" he repeated incredulously, his voice sharpening. "How the hell do you think I've been! I watched you die in that ambulance and I thought—" he broke off abruptly, his voice cracking a little and she swore she heard him swallow before he began again in a tone of such caustic sarcasm, she was half surprised it didn't corrode the phone line. "Oh, sure, I've been just fine, never better; I mean, I only had to watch someone I—care about get shot and nearly _die_ and then disappear without a word for more than a month but other than that, things have been great!" he exploded.

She sucked in her breath, flinching at each word. She never really thought of Castle as having a temper but like many easygoing people, he didn't have a temper, until he lost it. She caught the small hitch in his words, feeling something pinch her heart; he'd stopped himself from saying 'love,' that he'd had to watch someone he loved get shot…

Oh god, what had she done to him? How could she have done it?

She'd never thought—never imagined—what it must have been like for him. And yes, she'd been severely wounded and she had needed to focus on surviving but just once, at least, she should have thought of him and sent him a word or two of reassurance.

"Castle," she choked out. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." Her breath hitched and she had to pause to swallow back a sob, try to come up with something to say, not sure how to explain what she'd done. She had no clear plan but words came spilling out anyway because she needed to say something, do something. "I—I didn't mean to leave it so long. I just… at first it was because—well, I hurt too much and with the pain meds, I slept most of the time. And even when I left the hospital, I just…" She trailed off. What could she say? She had… run away, run from him and his declaration of love and hidden away her vulnerability. And left him. "I'm sorry," she said again. "I just… needed to concentrate on getting better," she managed, lamely. She'd been… selfish. She'd told herself she was doing the right thing, being unselfish, in getting better on her own so she wouldn't be relying on other people but now, Castle's blistering retort seemed to hold up a mirror to her actions and she saw the selfishness of it too. How she'd been so focused on her own injuries, on coping with being a victim that she'd never stopped to think that other people had been hurt too in their own way. But she didn't know how to say any of that without making him hate her (maybe it was too late). Oh god.

"Josh helping you with that?" There was a bitter edge to the question.

Josh—what? The name startled her out of some of her choking remorse—she hadn't so much as spared a thought for Josh in weeks. "Josh—what—no. Why would you even—"

"You and Josh looked very cozy the last time I saw you," he interrupted her but the edge was gone from his tone now. It was still cooler than she was used to, utterly devoid of any of the warmth she associated with him, but he didn't sound so angry anymore.

Cozy? She had to try to remember Josh's visit before Castle had arrived at the hospital but it was honestly fuzzy to her. Josh hadn't been there long; he'd asked some medical questions and said something about her giving him a scare but she didn't even remember the words. Her mind had been muzzy from the pain meds and what little clarity of thought she'd been capable of had been entirely preoccupied with the thought of Castle, the knowledge that Castle was coming, and she'd barely spared Josh any energy at all. And then Castle had walked in—and she had no real memory of what Josh had done after that. He might as well have dissolved into thin air for all the notice she'd taken of him leaving when all she'd really seen in that moment had been Castle. Castle, looking so… overwhelmingly _good_ … (She hadn't been fair to Josh at all.)

"No. My dad's the only one here. Josh is—I don't know where, but he's not here."

"You broke up." It wasn't quite a question but it wasn't quite not either.

She let out a breath. "Yes," she acknowledged quietly.

His voice returned to her. _You hide there, the same way you hide in nowhere relationships with men you don't love._ He'd been right. She admitted that to herself for the first time. God, how did he know her so well?

Her own voice abruptly rang through her mind. _You don't know me, Castle. You think you do but you don't._

She inwardly flinched. She owed him another apology. They hadn't talked about that cataclysmic fight in her apartment. Because Captain Montgomery had died and after that, nothing had been the same and so the fight had never been mentioned again and it had just become another thing that hung between them and wasn't talked about. (Because that had always worked so well for them.)

He didn't respond but this time, in his silence, she could swear she heard the question, why.

Part of her automatically asserted that it was none of his business and it wasn't as if she was used to talking about her personal life—her relationships—with anyone with the occasional exception of Lanie but another part of her had to admit that if anyone had the right to know why, it was Castle. Castle, who had called her out on Josh, the stark truth that she'd strung the relationship out long past the point of fairness to Josh, kept him hanging weeks, even months, after she'd known that Josh wasn't the one, would never be the one. Castle, who had, even unwittingly, been the third wheel in her relationship with Josh, the person standing between them (as Josh had so angrily pointed out.)

She owed Castle more.

"I—I liked him," she admitted quietly and not quite fluently, "but not enough. He wasn't—it wasn't right."

A brief silence hummed over the line and then, he responded, his tone neutral, "I didn't ask."

"You were not asking very loudly." The familiar words seemed to hang in the air between them and she wasn't sure if they made things better or worse as a reminder of what they had once been and were not now. Whatever else, they had been friends, good friends. Now they were… what? (Oh god…)

She heard him let out a deep breath and there was another silence that sounded way too loud to her, as she counted out her still too-rapid heartbeats and with every one, it seemed as if her heart descended further into her stomach. She was trying, desperately, to think of something else to say but there seemed to be an embargo on every subject because they couldn't make small talk and she didn't want to talk about her physical condition with him—still, even now, didn't want him to know, to be able to imagine it all, knowing his vivid imagination—and for once, they had no cases to talk about. There was Alexis, she suddenly remembered, and Martha. She could ask about them and had just opened her mouth to do just that when he finally spoke.

"Sorry it took me so long to return your call." The words were commonplace, polite, but she still lost her breath for a moment, a little spark of warmth kindling inside her. Because it wasn't just common courtesy; it was… a concession, of sorts. An acknowledgment that she had reached out to him, as it were, in revealing what little she had about her breakup with Josh and now, he was giving her a small piece in return. It was a gesture, one of generosity. No, more than that, it was grace. (Because she didn't kid herself that she deserved it.)

It was so like Castle, she suddenly thought. He didn't like to be the bad guy, was loath to criticize, didn't stay angry for long, and was quick to forgive. He was always so… good to her—not just to her but to Alexis and Martha and… everyone he… loved. And not for the first time, she marveled that such a kind, forgiving man had fallen for her with her prickliness, her irritability.

"I was… out. At dinner. Couldn't answer my phone," he went on, in uncharacteristically staccato fashion. And there was something odd in his tone, something she couldn't immediately identify. It sounded rather as if… as if he were confessing something.

Oh. The spark of warmth was abruptly extinguished. He'd been out at dinner. He sounded as if he were confessing something. Had he been—oh god—her damaged heart seemed to twist inside her—had he been on a date?

Oh. She tried to tell herself it wasn't important—it shouldn't be important. It wasn't as if it would be… cheating, to go on a date with another woman. She even deserved it, didn't she? She'd left him without so much as a word for weeks on end. She'd given him nothing, no reason to wait (for her). And he was a charming man who enjoyed women's company (and she didn't mean only for sex; unlike some men, Castle didn't value women solely as sex objects). He had a perfect right to date. She'd given him every reason to give up on her.

She was fine, really. (No, she really wasn't.)

"I was out with Alexis and my mother," he finished. There was still an odd intonation in his voice, a constraint.

Not on a date. The surge of relief she felt proved, if she'd doubted it, just how much she felt for him, how much she… loved him. And told her that, whatever else, she needed to figure out a way to make it up to him, a way to do… this. Needed to figure out a way to take the time to heal, for herself (that she still believed she needed), and still give Castle more, give him… well, a reason to wait for her.

"Oh, that's... nice," she fumbled a little for her words. "How are they?"

"They're fine." The answer was terse, sounded automatic. It was unlike him, to say the least.

She frowned. Was something wrong with Alexis or Martha? Something he didn't want to admit? But she didn't know what that could be. He had talked with her before about his concerns or occasional issues with his family.

"Actually, Beckett, the truth is," he began again in a sudden rush with the tone of someone who had made a decision, "the truth is, I didn't return your call until now because Alexis had confiscated my phone."

Alexis had done what? She knew Castle and Alexis joked about Alexis being more of a grownup than he was but it was just that, a joke. Alexis looked up to her dad and Castle might be easy-going but he was still Alexis's father (a very good one) and did set some boundaries.

She opened her mouth to make some quip about Alexis grounding him for misbehaving but stopped herself. Hiding behind teasing was too easy and anyway, humor wasn't appropriate for where they were at right now, not in this tentative beginning of a rapprochement. "Why did Alexis do that?" she asked instead.

He hesitated and then finally answered, "It wasn't just Alexis; it was also my mother. They… uh, staged an intervention, I guess you could say. They took my phone away and made me get dressed up and go out to dinner and… and they told me I needed to stop moping and stop pretending that staring at my phone was going to make it ring." He finished in a rush, the words blurring together so it took her a second to decipher them and another second for the implications to hit her. What he wasn't, quite, saying. That he'd been moping over _her_ , that he'd been waiting so desperately for her to call. A mental image of Castle, unkempt and disheveled, suddenly came to her mind—a Castle she'd never really seen. Aside from the week she'd spent at the loft after her apartment had exploded last year, she'd never seen him less than impeccably dressed. (And even then, the most dressed-down she'd ever seen him was in his robe or in a t-shirt and sweats.) She teased him for being a metrosexual and there was some truth to that because the man had a lot of clothes—a lot of nice clothes that he wore very well—but from what he'd just said, it sounded like he'd let himself go. Because of her.

Oh god, what had she done?

"I guess it's true, a watched pot never boils and a watched phone never rings." It was an attempt at his usual humor but it fell flat.

She felt the prick of absurd tears at his so-Castle like attempt at a wisecrack. "Castle, I—I'm so sorry," she choked out. "I didn't mean to—I never meant to hurt you."

He was silent for a moment and then he sighed. "But you did," he returned, quietly. It wasn't a reproach, more a statement of fact, and somehow that made it hurt worse.

She had hurt him. And that thought hurt worse than any physical pain she'd experienced in the last couple months.

"I'm sorry," she faltered again.

"You don't have to keep saying that, Beckett," he told her, sounding tired. "I wasn't trying to make you feel guilty."

No, he wouldn't have been. He was too kind for that, his sense of empathy too well developed. Especially when it came to her.

 _Can you forgive me? Do you even still love me?_ The question caught in her throat. No, she couldn't ask that. It would reveal too much, bring up her other sin, the bigger sin, and she couldn't deal with it now. She needed more time. (God, when had she become such a coward?)

Another silence fell as she tried to think of something she could say. _I miss you._ But that too caught in her throat; it was too much, too personal.

The silence was stretching on for too long and she finally cleared her throat a little and tried, lamely, "Have you seen the boys lately?"

"No, not lately. I think they're avoiding me."

She frowned. Avoiding him? "I'm sure that's not true."

"No, they are. They haven't taken my calls in more than a week and when I stopped off at the precinct last week and cornered Ryan, Espo came up in a minute and pulled him away with some excuse about a lead they had to run down."

"It could have been a real lead," she offered but it didn't sound convincing, even to herself.

"It could have been but I doubt it. You know what they're like when they're on a case."

Her throat closed up again. Yes, she did and god, she missed that too, the sense of camaraderie, working together for a common goal.

"Why would they be ignoring you?"

He paused and then answered, his tone becoming faintly wry, "I may have been a little too persistent and possibly annoyed them a couple weeks ago."

Amazingly, she felt a small smile curve her lips, the first real spark of humor in what felt like months kindling inside her. "You, annoying? I can't imagine," she managed to tease.

She swore she could hear his smile, could certainly picture it in her mind's eye. "I know, right? I'm all sweetness and light," he joked. Her heart clenched in a sudden spasm of missing him, so fierce that it almost took her breath away. Oh, she'd missed this, his humor.

Her soft laugh surprised her, sounded foreign to her own ears, it had been so long since she had really laughed.

He laughed too, in turn, a rusty sort of laugh, and somehow, it felt as if their relationship was back to what it had been, or at least getting there. It was so… normal, laughing with Castle, his humor so familiar, so… dear. And she suddenly couldn't imagine how she'd gotten through more than five weeks without hearing his voice, without talking to him.

"You're still you, I see, Castle."

"I tried to be someone else but it didn't stick."

She smiled again. Oh, Castle. Her lips parted for another tease but was surprised by a gaping yawn instead.

She knew he heard it too as he asked, "Falling asleep on me, Beckett?"

"Sorry, Castle. I seem to always be tired these days."

"It's okay. You're healing. I think that's natural."

"Yeah, I guess."

"Get some sleep. Good night, Beckett."

"Night, Castle."

The so familiar words brought a faint glow in her chest and for a moment, she could almost imagine that everything was the same, that she'd never been shot, that this was any other conversation with Castle.

And then she ended the call and turned her phone off and the simple act, the sharp pull on her side as she reached over to put her phone down, reminded her that no, it wasn't the same.

She went through the motions of preparing for bed slowly, as she had to do everything these days, but when she finally closed her eyes to sleep, for the first time, she was conscious of a little warmth settling around her heart. It was hope.

 _~To be continued…~_

A/N 2: Thank you to everyone who's read, reviewed, followed, or added this fic to their favorites, especially the guest reviewers I can't thank directly.


	3. Chapter 3

Author's Note: Now to see how Castle's doing…

 **The Space Between Us**

 _Chapter 3_

Castle woke up, conscious of a sense that something felt different but not at first what it was.

And then he realized, as full awareness returned to him.

For the first time in more than a month, he'd slept, without the aid of either alcohol or sleeping pills and without nightmares. He felt refreshed.

He got through his morning ablutions and then padded quietly down the stairs to the kitchen to make coffee. Coffee, which was another thing he thought he could actually enjoy drinking again.

While the coffee percolated, he stepped over to the French door leading out towards the beach and looked out, wondering idly if it was just the pathetic fallacy or whether it really was possible that the day was brighter than it had been since they'd arrived here this past weekend. It certainly seemed brighter, the view better. Not that he had even noticed the view in the last few days, hadn't noticed much of anything in weeks really. But today, he fancied that he could see all the way to the North Fork on the other side of the bay, the sky clear and blue with just a few scattered clouds.

The sunlight glinted off the water of the bay, flashes of white and silver, and he abruptly jerked, turning away, shutting his eyes and forcing himself to breathe regularly, focusing on the beat of his heart to push away the distant echo of screams, of sirens, in his head. No, no, this wasn't happening, not again. Beckett was alive, recovering. She was. She'd said so just last night. The thought calmed him, helped him get a hold of himself relatively quickly. But even so, he had to move away from the door, going into the kitchen area and preparing his coffee. Totally normal. See, he was fine now—would be fine. Really.

That done, he went to prop one shoulder against the wall as he faced the living room, deliberately looking away from outside, his gaze absently fixed on the fireplace opposite.

It was surprising—no, not surprising—just terrifying what a difference one simple conversation with Beckett had made. It was terrifying to be so vulnerable to her. He had no defenses when it came to her, his heart bare and unprotected.

He hadn't been so conscious of his vulnerability to her before—not because he hadn't been—but because he had trusted her, believed that she loved him. He'd sworn he could see it in her eyes and in her smiles. He'd been so sure that she didn't—couldn't—love Motorcycle Boy—Josh, had been so sure that she just needed a little more time to clear things up with Josh and then she would tell him. He'd been so hopeful. And then…

And then everything had gone to hell.

He flinched at the memories. They had been the worst weeks of his life, all stemming from the worst day of his life when Beckett had been—from the funeral. (Even in his thoughts, he shied away from the word of what had happened to her.)

And Josh had been there, had saved her life when he couldn't (had failed to save her, worse, had put the target on her), had been in the hospital room with her, looking so… _with_ her. Sitting by her side, holding her hand, kissing her forehead, as if he had every right to do so—which, of course, he had.

And it had killed Castle.

And then she'd sent him away. Said she would call him and she hadn't. Not a call, not a text, not an email, not a secondhand message sent through her dad or Lanie or the boys, not even a line sent by a damn carrier pigeon. He _knew_ he'd failed her, failed to save her, failed to find her shooter, but he'd still believed she would call him. Still believed in her.

But with every day, his certainty had faded and all he could think was that he must have been wrong, more wrong than he had ever been in his life. Every day, he'd imagined Josh with her, helping her, taking care of her…

He knew Beckett well enough to know that she didn't show weakness easily, didn't let people take care of her. (She'd been bruised rather badly after her apartment had been blown up—which had been terrifying enough but he'd had no idea just how much worse things could be—and fighting with Scott Dunn but she'd never said a word of it. The only way he even knew it was because of a certain stiffness in the way she moved the next couple days, entirely different from her usual fluid grace, and he'd seen her taking painkillers. She'd caught him watching her take the pills and had shot him a glare so fierce it would have made any animal with sense run away with its tail between its legs but he was a grown man and no coward and so he had not run away. Instead, he'd very courageously feigned blindness and then pretended to be examining one of the pictures on the shelf. So yes, he knew very well that Beckett didn't like showing weakness of any kind.)

That made it worse, really. Because the thought that she'd let Josh see her when she was weak, let Josh take care of her—she had to love Josh if she let him take care of her like that.

And she couldn't love _him_ if she could go so long without a word, without anything to even let him know that she was okay, that she was recovering, that she hadn't died. (It had felt like she had died. He had nightmares where she had, where her heart stopping in the ambulance was just the end—and he'd woken up to the reality that she was still gone without a word.)

His heart had been broken before—when Kyra had left him, when Meredith had cheated on him. Or at least, he'd thought it had. But this summer, he'd realized that his previous heartbreaks had been minor hurts in comparison. This—with Beckett—was more, bigger, deeper, than any love he'd ever felt before and that made the hurt so much worse too.

And then she'd called him and they had, eventually, talked.

His emotions had been in too much turmoil, a chaotic, swirling mess of anger and love and worry and fear and regret and tentative hope, for him to really process what she'd said last night. Now, in the light of morning, with the added distance of time and sleep, he actually thought about her words, his brain finally kicking in to process it all.

She had apologized and explained, at least, something of why she hadn't called. She hadn't said why she'd finally given in but from the message, of sorts, she had left, the muffled sound of sobs, he guessed it hadn't really been a conscious choice. That she'd been driven to it by pain, physical or emotional. He flinched at the thought.

And again, he wondered how he could still be angry at her—and he did think he was—and still feel so torn apart at the thought of her in pain, still want so desperately to comfort her, to be able to help her. He was angry at her—and still, if he could, if there were any way, he would willingly, happily, take on every bit of her pain himself. Whatever she was going through, he wished he could endure it for her.

Because he loved her. (His love was the one emotion he didn't doubt. Everything else, he wasn't quite sure of.)

And because he loved her, he thought he could forgive her. He knew he _wanted_ to forgive her. Whether he actually could—or had already—he honestly didn't know. He had felt such a dizzying surge of emotion when he had finally heard her voice again, first on the voicemail and then over the phone. So much relief and tentative happiness and love that for a moment, he had forgotten to be angry. In that moment of hearing her voice again, he'd forgotten his anger and remembered only that he loved her and he missed her and he was so worried about her. And she had sounded… happy… to hear from him. Her voice had sounded oddly, uncharacteristically, choked, weaker than he was accustomed to, but with all that, he could swear he'd heard a thread of happiness in it when she answered her phone. And at that moment, he wanted to forgive her. (God, he was so easy.)

"Dad, you're up!"

It was a sign of how absorbing his reverie was that he started at the sound of Alexis's voice.

He turned to see his daughter giving him a smile of pleased surprise, a smile that he returned without thinking, even as he felt a pang of guilt and shame at his behavior over the last month. He knew that Alexis's surprise wasn't due to the fact that he was awake—what with nightmares, insomnia had been his constant companion so sleeping in had not been an issue—but the fact that he was presentable, shaved and dressed. He'd stopped caring about his appearance (stopped caring about a lot of things) and as much as he'd been hurting, he shouldn't have let his daughter see him like that, should have done better for Alexis's sake. She'd been... upset with him about his behavior—and she had a reason to be.

"Good morning, sweetie."

"Good morning, Dad." He felt Alexis's assessing gaze on him before she ventured, "You seem… better, Dad. I think getting out of the City has been good for you."

"I think you're right," he agreed, slinging his arm around her shoulder and pressing a kiss to her hair.

He had agreed to his mother's and Alexis's combined entreaties/directives that they come out to the Hamptons, mostly because he'd lacked the energy to argue but partly because he hadn't figured it mattered much where he was. He'd been barred from the precinct; the investigation into Beckett's shooting had stalled, and Esposito and Ryan were avoiding him or (worse) giving him pitying looks when he suggested increasingly wild ideas to get around the impasse to find out more. (It had been the only thing he felt he could do to try to help Beckett and some days, he felt as if that was the only thing keeping him going.) When he'd lost even the investigation to cling to, he had really fallen apart.

So when his mother and Alexis suggested the Hamptons, he'd agreed because he was going to be depressed either way and being out at the Hamptons might be easier because it wouldn't be as haunted by memories of Beckett, whose lingering presence seemed to have permeated almost every inch of the loft. (Which was ridiculous since it wasn't as if she'd spent all that much time at the loft but that didn't seem to matter to his lovelorn mind. It seemed as if everywhere he looked, he conjured up mental images of her, cooking breakfast in the kitchen in the week she'd stayed at the loft after Scott Dunn had blown up her old apartment, lounging on the couch, sitting at the kitchen island. Even his bedroom, where she'd never been, was haunted by her, by all the dreams he'd had about her, all the times he'd imagined her in his bed.)

The Hamptons was easier, freer of memories of Beckett. (Except the Hamptons only reminded him of last summer when he'd come out here with Gina—and imagined Beckett with Demming and missed her. Now, he imagined Beckett with Josh and still missed her but the longing for Beckett was the same. Except it wasn't. He'd missed Beckett last summer but he hadn't really been in love with her then, not the way he was now. It hadn't been the same at all.)

"Dad?"

"Yes, Alexis?"

Alexis hesitated and then asked, "Have you… Did you call Detective Beckett?"

Beckett's name startled him—or rather Alexis mentioning Beckett startled him. Alexis had generally (sensitively) avoided mentioning her name in the last month.

"I—she called me, actually. But how did you know?" She had called first, even if he hadn't been able to answer.

Alexis gave him one of her patented "silly Dad" looks, for the first time in a while. "Your eyes are brighter and you seem… hopeful, happier since last night. Only talking to Detective Beckett could do that."

He grimaced a little at this truth, feeling another stab of guilt. He sighed and tightened his arm around Alexis. "I'm sorry, Alexis."

"For what?"

"I know I've been… preoccupied this summer," he temporized. The understatement of the century; he didn't feel like he could say outright that he'd been heartbroken and miserable, not to his daughter. "I haven't really been there for you because of that and I'm sorry. I shouldn't have—you shouldn't have to see me like that. It's not fair to you."

"Oh, Dad," Alexis sighed, turning to hug him in her turn. "It's okay. I know if I'd really needed anything, you would still have been there. I just… I worry about you, Dad. I don't want to see you get hurt."

 _Too late._ He bit back the words. "It's my job to worry about you, not your job to worry about me."

Alexis shook her head a little. "I love you so of course I'm going to worry about you."

Oh, damn. As always, the magnitude of the emotion he felt for his daughter seemed enough to knock him off his feet. "I love you too, pumpkin."

She gave him another squeeze before dropping her arms and stepping back just enough so she could look at him directly. "So you talked to Beckett?"

"Yeah, we talked for a little while."

"How is she?"

His sweet little girl. He knew Alexis was not exactly pleased with Beckett right now but even so, she was still concerned about Beckett. "She said she's getting better. She just sounded tired."

"Oh. She's not in pain?"

He inwardly flinched. He suspected she was in quite a bit of pain but Beckett being Beckett, she wouldn't admit it. Had only said she was sore. But knowing her, that was understating it by a mile. "She didn't say she was," he finally answered.

"I'm glad." Alexis paused and then asked, her tone hardening a little, "Did she apolo—no, never mind, it's none of my business."

"Alexis…" he sighed.

Alexis made a sort of apologetic face. "Sorry, Dad, I just… I worry because you could have been shot too and then she doesn't even call you for more than a month while you're spending all your time at the precinct and—" she broke off the angry burst of words and started again, much more quietly, "And since then, you've been really sad and… and I know it's because of her and I don't like to see it."

"I don't like to see me sad either," he attempted to quip.

Alexis didn't smile. "I just want you to be happy."

His heart swelled with love. God, he didn't know how he'd ever gotten so lucky to have a daughter like her. He smiled, lifting a hand to gently chuck her chin and then tug on a lock of her hair. "I've got you and Grams. I'll be fine."

Alexis studied him, her blue eyes so solemn. (And he was briefly reminded of when she'd been a baby, staring out at the world with those same big blue eyes, looking so serious sometimes as if even then, she'd been thinking long, long thoughts.) "Does she make you happy?"

 _Yes._ The answer was automatic, unthinking. Of course Beckett made him happy. He looked forward to seeing her every day. The sight of her smile, the sound of her laugh, never failed to lift his heart and being able to make her smile, oh, that made him feel as if he'd just won the Nobel Prize, as if he could float from sheer elation.

But that had been before.

She might have called and they might have talked (a little). And she might have told him that she'd broken up with Josh (and implied that she hadn't let Josh take care of her much, if at all, either.)

But was it enough to say she made him happy now? _No._ He was an optimist by nature but he'd been hurt too deeply, his heart too excoriated by the last weeks of silence and distance.

"She could," he answered carefully and honestly (because he always told Alexis the truth). He knew Beckett _could_ make him happy. If she let him in, let him love her… she could make him happier than he had ever been.

She just… hadn't. Not yet. (That abruptly seemed pathetic.)

"Is that enough?"

He hesitated. And the very fact that he had to suddenly struck him to the heart. After all this time, so many months of being in love with Beckett, he'd never once considered that maybe he couldn't wait for her, that maybe it wasn't enough. Had never once thought he might be done with her or even could be done with her. Even in all his heartbreak, as his emotions had veered wildly between anger and despair and suffocating worry, he'd never wondered if he should just give up, let the dream of her go. The very idea would have seemed unthinkable, as unthinkable as… abandoning Alexis.

Now, faced with Alexis's quiet question, he wondered—and for a moment, he didn't know. And that was maybe the worst thing.

Was it enough? To keep on waiting, postponing his own happiness, for the dream of a potential future? Based on… what? A few smiles, a few words…

Except… those smiles, those words, were from Kate Beckett. And with all her faults, all her frustrating reticence, she was… the most extraordinary person he'd ever met. She challenged him, made him think, made him laugh, made him check his most thoughtless impulses. She had made him a better man.

And he loved her, was in love with her in a way he'd never been in love before. And he'd lived long enough, known enough women, to know that a person didn't fall in love like this every day. (He had a sinking suspicion that no matter what ended up happening with Beckett, he would never fall in love like this again.)

No, he couldn't give up on her now. Not after their conversation. And not only because of that but because he loved her too much and he was temperamentally incapable of walking away without trying more, again, especially now that Josh was out of the picture.

But for the first time, he could imagine a future where he might walk away from Beckett and give up even the dream of her. Not yet, not without wrenching pain, but it wasn't impossible to imagine either.

He sighed. "It's enough for now," he told her quietly.

It was Alexis's turn to sigh. Her lips twitched a little and for the first time in a while, he had no idea what she was thinking. "I hope… I hope she deserves you," Alexis said quietly.

He straightened up a little. As grown up as Alexis was, as angry as part of him still was (wanted to be?) at Beckett, that was too much. He thought about the way she'd choked out her apology, the tears in her voice and what it took to bring Beckett to tears, thought about what Johanna Beckett's case did to Beckett. "Now, Alexis," he began, a mild reproof in his tone. "That's not fair."

Alexis made a small face. "Sorry, Dad, I didn't mean it like that, not really. I… I like Detective Beckett, you know. I don't like what she's done but I do like her. And I know I don't really know what it's been like for her, with her mom dying and what happened to her and, well, everything. I just… I don't like it when people make you unhappy."

Damn. All the wind was taken out of his sails because how could he possibly scold Alexis for prematurely judging someone—someone who was older than her and someone who'd never done anything to hurt Alexis herself—after she said such a thing?

And he felt another pang of guilt because he really had failed Alexis too, in giving into his despair the way he had. When Meredith had cheated on him and left him (and Alexis), he hadn't allowed himself to fall apart, because Alexis had been so young and however he felt, Alexis had needed him. And Alexis might need him less now (she definitely needed him less now, although he wasn't sure he liked that), and yes, his emotions over Meredith leaving had been much weaker, but he was still Alexis's father and she deserved better than the depressed and withdrawn shell of a man he had been lately.

Castle drew her in to drop a kiss on her forehead before he stepped back, resting a hand on her shoulder as he met her eyes. "Alexis, sweetie, I know this hasn't been easy for you and it wasn't fair to you that I, well, behaved the way I have the last few weeks but that's on me. And as for Beckett, we did talk some last night and I don't know where we're going from here. She did have reasons for not calling but that's between me and her. Okay?"

His daughter gave him a small, fragile smile. "Okay." She paused. "If—when you talk to her again, will you tell her I hope she's feeling better?"

Oh, his little girl.

"Of course." He hugged Alexis to him again, resting his cheek against her chin, and thought, not for the first time, that no matter what, as long as he had Alexis, he should be fine. He released her after a moment. "Now, I think it's time for breakfast. Omelets sound okay?"

"As long as you make normal omelets and not one of your gross s'morelets, then sure."

He pulled a deliberate face. "I don't know how a child of mine could be born with such boring taste in food."

She smirked at him. "I think I'm the normal one and you're just a freak."

"Well, if you're going to be mean…"

Alexis only laughed and went to the fridge to start pulling out ingredients. "Silly Dad. Come on, I'll help you chop."

He and Alexis fell into preparing omelets in easy harmony and he found his mind wandering, predictably, to Beckett.

She had apologized, had sounded close to tears as she did so. (And Beckett did not do either of those things easily so it meant a lot.) She'd broken up with Josh.

And their conversation had ended feeling like their... friendship—partnership—whatever—had been restored to something like what it had been.

He'd made her laugh for the first time in well over a month and in that moment, he'd felt as if he were really himself again, as if something that had been out of place had shifted back into its rightful position.

On the thought, though, her voice suddenly played in his mind: _For the last three years, I've been running around with the school's funniest kid and it's not enough._

Just like when he'd first heard the words, he felt the sting like the lash of a whip. Playing into his fears, his insecurities.

Not enough. Could he ever be enough for her?

At his most hopeful, optimistic moments, he told himself that his humor and levity were good for her, that they balanced out her seriousness just as she kept him grounded. But after all, maybe that was just him seeing what he wanted to see, believing what wasn't true. He was good at making up stories, after all.

No, he didn't know where they were going from here, what would happen next.

Neither of them had said anything about when—if—they would talk again. He was, still, too damaged, his heart too raw, to be the one to take the initiative and call her and he was unsure whether her statement of needing some time was still true.

He would wait, again, at least for a while. But for the first time in a month, he felt hope.

 _~To be continued…~_

A/N 2: Thank you, everyone, for reading and reviewing, especially the guest reviewers I can't thank directly.


	4. Chapter 4

Author's Note: The real talking—and the healing—starts now…

 **The Space Between Us**

 _Chapter 4_

It was three days before she called him again.

Kate fought back tears as she sank onto her bed and then let out a sharp hiss at the way the wound in her side pulled and burned with every change in position. She hated this, she hated this, she hated this. She hated how she hurt all over in a way she really hadn't in weeks, hated more that she knew full well it was her own fault for overdoing it today, and as if that wasn't enough, she hated her own self too.

She listened and something about the quality of the silence told her that her dad had left the cabin, probably to go for a walk in the woods as he occasionally did.

She felt more tears pricking at the back of her eyes. It was so unlike her to be so prone to tears but these days, it seemed like the only outlet she had. Whereas before she used to pound out frustration or irritation on a hapless punching bag or by going running, she couldn't do any of that now and when she was frustrated at the glacial pace of her recovery, she couldn't do much except cry. She hated crying.

And in her roweling frustration and her anger and her regret, she automatically, unthinkingly, sought the one thing that had given her a reason to smile, made her laugh for the first time in weeks. (The dam of her resistance had given way entirely. Not only because she wanted to be able to talk to him but because she could see now that not calling hurt him just as much, if not more, than it did her. Hurting herself was one thing but she could not knowingly hurt him.)

She called Castle.

And this time, he answered, although his greeting sounded distracted. "Castle."

She heard the faint sound of tapping and realized, belatedly, what it was and why he sounded distracted. He was typing. "Hey, Castle, it's me. Beckett," she clarified, wondering if she needed to identify herself. She almost never had before but after the last weeks, she suddenly didn't know if he would be expecting a call from her to enable him to identify her voice. (And that thought stung more than she'd expected.)

"Beckett!" The sound of typing ceased. He sounded surprised. She supposed she could hardly blame him for not expecting her to call again, not after the way she'd treated him so far this summer. "Hi, uh, how are you?" His voice abruptly sounded closer to her and she realized she must have been on speaker before but no longer was.

Something about the concern in his voice, the warmth—even if it wasn't quite restored to what it had been before everything had gone wrong—made her throat close up again. "I'm—I've been better," she admitted and then stopped, surprised at herself.

"What is it? What's wrong?"

"You were writing, weren't you? I don't want to bother you when you're working," she evaded.

"That's never stopped me before," he quipped and she felt a faint flicker of amusement. "Anyway, I had reached a stopping point so you're not bothering me," he added more seriously.

She suspected he was being polite—or just being himself, really, she thought. When had Castle not been willing to be disturbed by her? She had called him at all hours of the day (and night) for body drops and he'd never not come when she called. It would be, she thought, so easy to take advantage of that and she promised herself, yet again, that she wouldn't.

"You're sure? I really… it's not…"

"Beckett," he sighed, "you called me and you wouldn't have done that for nothing. So talk."

Oh. She was momentarily brought up short at his mild pushback. This wasn't really like him—at least not as he had been before. This Castle wasn't so willing to accept her evasions, was more willing to push. She supposed she deserved that, even needed it. And after all, his reluctance to push her had only gotten them more than a month of silence, estrangement.

(She suddenly remembered the old Castle, the one she'd first met, the one who had annoyed her so much with his persistence and his inability to respect boundaries and his constant pushing of the limits. He really had changed, had learned not to overstep. Irrationally, she wanted the old Castle back, the one who had always pushed.)

"I just… I sort of had a spat with my dad," she almost mumbled.

"You argued?" he asked cautiously. "About what?"

"No, it wasn't—" She shifted, making an unthinking, impatient movement, and then had to bite back a gasp as the incision on her side pulled. "It wasn't an argument," she sighed. "I just… blew up at him for no good reason."

Her "reason" had been her frustration with her own recovery and self-reproach at her foolishness in pushing herself too hard out of sheer stubbornness and she'd taken it out on her dad when he'd made the mistake (or something) of expressing his concern. Worse, he hadn't even said anything approaching "I told you so" and she'd still flared up.

God, she was a terrible person.

"Oh. Okay," he said slowly, his voice neutral.

"My dad left the cabin so I think he's upset. I just… I'm not a good patient," she muttered. (And that was another reason not to let Castle see her like this. She knew herself and she was irritable, at best, and downright irascible and unreasonable when she was injured or sick. If she inflicted herself on Castle right now, he would likely end up hating her—and she couldn't stand that.)

Castle coughed and then after a moment, responded, "Somehow that doesn't surprise me at all." His tone was very faintly dry, almost teasing if it had been allowed to grow up, and she felt a tiny flicker of hope. If he felt able to tease her again—was willing to tease her again… Slowly they might be able to reclaim what they had been (and then, maybe, they could move on from there and someday, be more than what they had been).

And that flicker of hope was what gave her the courage to banter back. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing," he blurted out quickly. "At least, nothing bad," he added. "I just—you don't—uh..."

She could picture his look of wide-eyed dismay as he stumbled over an explanation and she wondered when he'd lost his sense of humor where she was concerned, when he'd become so fearful of offending her. No, she didn't wonder that; she knew when. They might be able to reclaim what they had been—but they were not there yet. Because yes, he occasionally opened his mouth and inserted his foot but for the most part, he was good at picking up on when she was teasing, or at least he had been. She wanted the teasing Castle back, wanted… his laughter back. (God, what had she done to him, to them?) "Settle down, Castle, I was joking."

"Right. Right, of course." He stopped and there was a brief silence before he finally went on, his voice as serious as she'd ever heard it, "Your dad won't be mad at you, you know, Beckett. He knows you so he'll understand that you didn't mean whatever you said and I'm sure… I'm sure that if he's upset at all, it's only because of how hard it must be for him to know you're hurting."

She sighed, all thoughts of banter vanishing. "I suppose. I just… it's not fair to him." Having to take care of her and put up with her foul temper. Until now, she'd tried so hard not to worry her dad too much, tried not to depend on him any more than she absolutely needed to. She'd tried so hard to keep her dad from seeing the extent of her pain or growing frustration or her irrational anger at her own body for not cooperating and today, all her efforts had failed. She hated herself for it.

"Beckett, that's not—don't think like that. It's not a hardship; it's a _privilege_ to take care of the people we care about and I promise you, your dad doesn't mind."

His voice almost vibrated with suppressed intensity and she realized suddenly that he was speaking for himself, not just her dad. He was telling her how _he_ felt about it, that he thought it was a privilege to take care of the people he cared about.

Of course he would say that. It was such a Castle-like sentiment, the way he acted as if he was the lucky one to be so good to Alexis, the way he'd looked so absurdly pleased as he handed her the little gift bag with her dad's newly-fixed watch in it last year after Scott Dunn had blown up her old apartment, the way he smiled when she accepted his coffees as if she were doing him a favor. (Ridiculously, she felt another pang at the reminder of his coffees.)

She sniffled a little in spite of herself. "You sure about that?"

"I know it. I'm a father too, remember, and fathers will do anything for their daughters."

Oh, Castle. She suddenly remembered all the times over this summer that her dad had disclaimed any thanks, his constant refrain, _you don't have to thank me, Katie_. After all, Castle might be right. She managed a watery smile. "Thanks, Castle."

"For what?"

"For…" How to express it? How could she put into words what it meant that she could call him—even now, when he had every reason to be angry at her—and know that he would make her feel better? "For… talking me out of my funk," she finally said lamely. "It—you—helped."

"I guess there's a first time for everything."

Wait. What? At any other time, she would have taken it for just one of his self-deprecating jokes-it sounded like he'd wanted to make it sound like a joke but the attempt at humor had failed. Instead, it had sounded like he meant it, like he honestly thought… But no. He couldn't. He just… couldn't. For a moment, her brain just stammered; the idea that he might think he hadn't helped before so… foreign, so ludicrous, she just couldn't comprehend it. "What? What do you mean by that?"

"Nothing," he said hurriedly. "It was just… nothing. You know me, always talking nonsense."

He was evading. She supposed that shouldn't surprise her. They were both good at talking around things, avoiding the proverbial elephant in the room. They had to do better at actually talking about things. Talking, really talking, about this stuff, the important stuff, might be—was frightening but, she reminded herself, they had faced down serial killers and would-be terrorists together. And not talking hadn't gotten them anywhere good. (Of course, she had to admit that it was easier when she wasn't the one on the hot seat.)

"It didn't sound like nothing. What did you mean?"

"Beckett…" he sighed. And still didn't talk.

"Castle, you… you know you help, right?" Her throat closed up and she found she didn't know what else to say. He did help—he helped so much—but she didn't know how to tell him that. She never could put into words the things that meant the most. Not for the first time, she hated her hamstrung tongue. She finally resorted to what was easier, borrowing his words and a little humor. "You're the one who told that _Cosmo_ reporter last year that you were instrumental in helping us solve some of our toughest cases, remember?"

He didn't laugh, made a derisive sound that was half a snort, half an unamused huff. "That was… arrogant. And a long time ago. Before… well, before. It wasn't… it didn't matter when it counted."

"Castle, no. You saved the city from a dirty bomb and you… you tried to save me," she managed to choke out.

"Tried!" He made the word sound like an expletive. "You mean I _failed._ "

No. No, he couldn't mean… He couldn't blame himself. Could he? "No, Castle," she forced the words out. "This isn't—none of this is your fault."

"Isn't it?" he retorted, his voice harsh and somehow tired at the same time. "I was the one that pushed you to look into your mom's case again. And I could've tried harder to persuade you, could've done more, but I—"

"No, Castle," she interrupted him, trying not to cry. She wasn't the issue. "I didn't listen; I kicked you out. You couldn't have—you tried to make me stop but I wouldn't."

He went on as if she hadn't spoken. "Your dad, Montgomery, they both asked, and I just… failed… And I was too late, at the cemetery. I was just… too late."

(What about her dad? She filed the question away for later. It wasn't important now.) "Castle, stop it!"

Her voice rose, sharpened, and finally, he stopped. She choked back sobs, swallowing back the lump of emotion in her throat. Oh god. She'd never thought, never imagined, he might blame himself. But then… She suddenly remembered another conversation at another time about another development in her mom's case. After she'd shot Coonan. _I overstepped_ , he'd said. Blamed himself for that. Just as he was blaming himself now.

"Castle, this isn't— _none_ of this is your fault. Raglan was the one who called me and he was the one who started this back then. He and McCallister and… and Montgomery were the ones who started this. But you didn't start anything. And you tried—you did everything you could have done—"

"I could've tried harder," he interrupted. "Could've argued longer or… or refused to leave or..."

He was stubborn too. And—oh—he had probably spent the last six weeks constantly revisiting everything to do with her mom's case, and blaming himself. She recognized it, the way victims' families blamed themselves too, always wondering if there was something they could have done, returned home sooner, made a phone call, visited more often…

Her breath hitched as vague, fuzzy memories surfaced in her mind. His visit in the hospital. She didn't remember it very clearly, she'd been on too much pain medication, but she'd said—what had she said?—that Castle should have let her go back into the hangar... Oh god. No. Oh no.

She hadn't meant it like that, hadn't meant to sound like she blamed him for Montgomery dying, for anything that had happened. But she suddenly realized, that was how he must have heard it.

And she had left him to think it. (God, what had she done? How could she have done it? But she'd never even imagined he might blame himself. It was so… unutterably wrong. She would sooner have imagined Esposito running off to become a monk.)

"Castle…" She paused. " _Rick_."

She heard his intake of breath at her rare use of his first name. The last time she'd used it had been during their fight in her apartment. He was really listening to her now.

"I don't blame you for anything that's happened," she began quietly but firmly. "I never even thought of it. Because none of this is your fault. You tried to make me walk away but I was the one who didn't listen. And Castle, there was nothing you could have done or said that would have made me listen." She paused and then, on a sudden inspiration, added, "Someone once told me that when other people come up against a wall, they give up but I don't. I don't let go. I don't back down."

He gave a choking sort of sound. "It's what makes you extraordinary," he whispered, repeating his own words to her, catching the reference as she'd known he would.

"It's what makes me stubborn," she countered.

"Determined."

She managed a watery smile. So like him, to turn her faults into virtues. "Pigheaded."

"Resolute."

"Thank you, Mr. Thesaurus."

He huffed something that might have been a laugh if it had been allowed to grow up. "Writer, remember?"

"It rings a bell," she said rather dryly.

He did manage a brief chuckle at that and she smiled slightly. She had broken through to him.

"It's not your fault, Castle," she said again, soberly. "You've had my back all along. Even after I kicked you out, you still… came to the hangar and… and had my back." He had saved her that night. Even as she'd fought him and pleaded for him to let her go—he had saved her life even over her own protests.

"I'm—I was your partner. And I made a promise."

"You did everything you could have done, Castle," she repeated, quietly. "So no more blaming yourself."

There was a pause and then, "Yes, Detective," he replied with exaggerated meekness.

She gave a faint smile, heartened at his recovered humor. "See, you should always listen to me. You're learning, Castle."

"'When the wind is southerly, I know a hawk from a hand-saw.'"

"And I'm sure you're only mad north-north-west," she rejoined.

She swore she could hear his smile or sense it. "I always forget that you read."

"Don't sound so impressed, Castle," she retorted dryly. "It's ' _Hamlet_ ,' and I did graduate from high school, you know. I'm sure even Esposito could identify the quote too."

He laughed, one of his real laughs, and she smiled, a wonderful warmth unfurling in her chest. She had made him laugh, absolved him of his (unnecessary) guilt. She might be broken, damaged, but at least for now, she'd been able to do this one thing for him. And maybe, just maybe, she could make it up to him for the last weeks of silence. (She _had_ to make it up to him somehow, had to fix things, because she… loved him too much not to.)

"Feeling better now, Castle?"

"I think I should be asking you that question," he parried. "Which reminds me, Alexis said to tell you that she hopes you're feeling better."

She smiled, a little surprised but pleased. She wouldn't have expected that she was in Alexis's good graces right now. "That's sweet of her. Tell Alexis I am doing better." She was better, even if she wasn't exactly feeling that way now. She shouldn't have overexerted herself the way she had, walking for far longer than she should have, long past the point when her side had started to ache and her legs had started to feel shaky beneath her. But she was aware she was better, just not as much better as she wanted to be.

"Good." He paused and then went on, his voice abruptly much more subdued, sober, "And Evelyn said to tell you the same thing."

Evelyn. Oh god, Evelyn. Her breath hitched in her chest at the mention of Montgomery's wife's name, the sudden stark memory of that terrible night, of having to tell Evelyn and the kids what had happened.

"You… you've talked to Evelyn?" she faltered.

"Yes," he answered rather diffidently. "I went to see her a couple weeks ago. It had been a month since Montgomery… you know… so I wanted to see how she and the kids were doing."

Oh. Of course. One month since Captain Montgomery had died. It was like Castle to remember that and think of visiting. She felt tears well up in her eyes at the thought of Evelyn and her kids. It was an oddly healing thing, to cry over someone else's pain. After the last six weeks when her consciousness, her world, had essentially narrowed down to the confines of her bed and her room, when she had (mostly out of necessity) spent most of her thoughts on her own physical condition, on how to move so as not to re-injure herself, it felt… oddly nice to cry over a pain that was separate from herself. As if her own injury had made her selfish (it had) and now she was rediscovering or reconnecting with her humanity, her sense of compassion.

"It's… what Montgomery would have wanted. I owed him that, at the very least."

"Yes, I understand," she managed to say, quietly. "How were she and the kids doing?"

"Evelyn said they were doing better. Still grieving, of course, but getting better. The kids had gone back to school and were starting to spend more time with their friends." He paused and then added, his voice low, "Evelyn said that little Mary had suffered from some nightmares and night terrors the first couple weeks but that she seemed to finally be over them."

"Oh god, the poor girl." Kate could imagine. She had had nightmares for weeks after her mother had died. She deliberately didn't think about the nightmares she had now.

"Yeah." He sighed. "I just… felt so useless. I'm a writer and I pride myself on knowing the right words but what could I possibly say? There are no words that will make up for what they've lost. I told Evelyn to call me if she or the kids ever need anything but what good does that do?"

She swallowed back the choking lump of grief. "It still helps, Castle. I know; I remember…" Her throat closed up at the memories of the first terrible month after her mom had died. She couldn't talk about that time; she _never_ talked about that time.

"I'm sorry."

"It's okay, Castle. I just meant… it does help just to know someone cares."

"Thanks, Kate. That's… nice to know."

He had called her Kate again. She felt warmth coil around her heart, somehow easing the spasm of hurt at the memories. And she suddenly knew that he had really and truly forgiven her for not calling all those weeks. He wouldn't be calling her Kate if he hadn't. She couldn't remember him really calling her Kate since… the cemetery.

 _Kate, I love you. I love you, Kate._

She shut her eyes, regulating her breathing, automatically tensing… But she realized, after a few moments, she… didn't need to. For the first time, the memory of his words that day hadn't triggered a flashback. Her breath was a little too shallow, her heart rate a little too fast, but she wasn't even sure how much of that might be a self-induced response to her apprehension.

She was… fine. She could do this. (She wasn't optimistic enough to believe she would never have a flashback again but it was a step towards recovery and for the moment, that was enough.)

She smiled.

"How are Alexis and Martha doing?" she asked more easily.

"They're fine, both out right now. My mother is out shopping so I expect she'll return home laden with as many shopping bags as she can carry and a maxed-out credit card and Alexis is over at a friend's for a pool-party."

She blinked. "Pool—oh, you're in the Hamptons." She felt irrationally disturbed by that. All this time, she'd been picturing Castle in the familiar surroundings of the loft. Now to discover that he was out at the Hamptons, where she'd never been, the Hamptons, where he'd spent last summer with Gina. She didn't know why it mattered to her but somehow, she didn't quite like not being able to picture his surroundings. (Stupid of her. And unfair because Castle couldn't picture her surroundings either.)

"Nice deducing, Beckett," he teased mildly.

"I am a detective, you know," she responded automatically, even as she felt a tug of emotion because she didn't feel like a detective at all, wondered sometimes if she'd ever be able to feel like a detective again.

"It rings a bell," he parroted her earlier dry response and she laughed, surprising herself a little. And she realized again just how little she had laughed in the last six weeks. That was perhaps unsurprising; recovering from near-death wasn't remotely humorous but she knew it was, at least partly, the lack of Castle, the weeks of not talking to him. Laughter had been in relatively short supply in her life for years before Castle had come on the scene and the fact remained that at the simplest level, Castle made her life more fun. And after all, she might need that now more than ever. (How had she ever managed to go so many weeks without talking to him? She didn't know, but she was starting to see that in more ways than one, it might just have been the stupidest thing she'd ever done.)

"Anyway, I am in the Hamptons. Alexis and my mother thought a change in scenery would be good but we'll probably go back to the City at the end of the month to give Alexis a couple weeks to spend with Ashley before he leaves for college."

"Oh, okay. Well, have fun." She tried, with limited success, to infuse as much enthusiasm into her voice as she could. It wasn't that she didn't want him to enjoy himself, she did. She just… didn't like the idea of him enjoying himself without her. (Oh god, what was wrong with her?)

"Yeah, I'll try."

He sounded uncharacteristically dispirited and she found herself blurting out without thinking about it, "Can I call you again?" She wasn't even sure why she asked it. It wasn't as if she'd ever asked his permission to call before but maybe, after all, it was an oblique way of reassuring him that she would call him again.

"Of course," he said immediately, a faint thread of surprise in his tone that otherwise sounded much brighter than it had. "You can call anytime."

She gave a rather shaky smile. "Thanks, Castle."

"You never need to ask to call me. We're partners, aren't we?"

There was uncertainty in his voice; it wasn't a purely rhetorical question.

Her own voice rang through her mind. _You know what we are, Castle, we are over._

She flinched.

"Yes, we're partners."

"There, see? Feel free to bother me anytime," he joked, abruptly sounding almost like his usual self.

She could just picture his expression, the spark of humor glinting in the blue eyes, the teasing smirk on his lips. She felt another sharp pang of missing him.

"Castle?"

"Yeah?"

"I miss—coffee," she finished lamely. It had sounded better in her head. She'd meant to say that she missed him but the last word caught in her throat. Coffee was… easier, safer, to admit to missing. She suddenly, ridiculously, remembered the way she'd felt when Natalie Rhodes appropriated Kate's coffee. Coffee was… theirs. He would understand that, right? He was a writer; he understood symbolism.

He made a small sound like a choke of surprise. "You miss coffee? Wait, how can you miss coffee? Does your dad not have a coffee maker at the cabin? Do you want me to send you one?"

She managed a small huff of laughter at his rush of words. "No, Castle, that's okay. Of course my dad has a coffee maker. I just can't drink coffee yet."

"You can't drink coffee?" He sounded horrified. "You've been deprived of coffee for six weeks and you're still alive?"

She choked on air, giving a gasp that was part shock, part amusement.

He belatedly realized what he'd said. "Shit. I didn't mean—forget I said that. God, Beckett, I'm sorry, that was stupid. I—"

"It's okay, Castle," she interrupted. "I thought it was funny. I know you didn't mean it the way it sounded."

"No, but still, Beckett, I—"

"It really is okay, Castle." She paused and added, gently teasing, "It wasn't without comedic merit even if it was in somewhat poor taste but I've known you too long to be surprised at that."

He huffed something that was almost a laugh. "Thank you, I think."

Oh, she did miss him.

"Yeah, I miss coffee. The doctors told me I shouldn't drink it for a while because it wasn't good for my blood pressure, and something about the combination of the painkillers and the antibiotics meant I needed to avoid caffeine. But I'll be finishing those by the end of this week so I'll be able to have coffee again, real coffee, that is, and not decaf."

"Counting down the days, aren't you, Beckett?"

"Counting down the hours," she agreed with a small laugh.

"I'm sure you are," he began but at that moment, she heard the sound of a door opening and realized her dad must have returned from his walk.

"Oh, Castle, my dad's back. I should probably go."

"Of course. It was good to talk to you," he added, sounding oddly stilted, suddenly awkward again.

"I'll talk to you later?"

She could practically hear his smile. "Of course," he said again, his voice warming.

"Okay. Bye, Castle."

"Until next time. Hey, Beckett?"

"Yeah?"

"I miss you too," he said hurriedly and then she heard the tone to indicate that he'd ended the phone call.

 _I miss you too._ She smiled. Yes, he'd understood.

 _~To be continued…~_


	5. Chapter 5

Author's Note: I didn't really plan to write this conversation between Kate and Jim but somehow it basically ended up writing itself.

 **The Space Between Us**

 _Chapter 5_

Her dad was in the kitchen when Kate ventured out of her room.

Her dad looked up and obviously manufactured a small smile. "Oh, Katie, there you are. I was just about to start getting dinner ready. What would you like?"

His look and his voice were carefully calibrated to have just the right amount of warmth and concern, cloaked with nonchalance.

She was, a little oddly, reminded of some of the earliest visits with her dad in those first weeks after he'd become sober, the time when she'd still expected he would relapse, the times she'd watched every look, every word, that she said to him. When they had both been painfully polite to each other, when they'd both acted as if their newly-repaired relationship were as fragile and delicate as the finest porcelain and would shatter if anyone so much as looked askance.

She hated herself all over again.

She sank down into a chair carefully, hiding a wince at the ache in her side. She really had overdone it. "Anything's fine. Dad, I'm sorry for being such a jerk earlier."

Her dad sighed and came over to join her at the table. "That's not the word I would have used."

"A brat then."

His lips twitched. "No, I wouldn't use that word either. Look, Katie, I won't say that I was very happy with you earlier," he said with characteristic and lawyerly understatement.

"I'm sorry," she said again. "I shouldn't have blown up at you."

"No, you shouldn't have," he agreed mildly, softening the reproof yet further by reaching out to pat her arm gently. "But I do understand. You were frustrated and hurting and that doesn't tend to bring out the best of tempers in anyone. And you've never liked being sick, always been cranky when you weren't feeling well."

She managed a faint smile. "I know I'm a terrible patient."

Her dad gave her a little smile. "Your mom and I always said we were lucky that you were generally healthy because it was never fun when you weren't. I remember that time you were laid up when you sprained your ankle so badly or when you had your tonsillectomy."

Kate smiled. "Mom and I watched so much _Temptation Lane_ those times."

"I know." Her dad made an eloquent face. "I always thought watching that nonsensical show should make you sicker but your mom said that it was the perfect distraction because you were so busy laughing at it that you forgot to be grumpy."

She laughed softly. "Mom was right."

"She always was," her dad agreed, his smile fading.

Kate sobered, her throat tightening with emotion. "I wish…" She wished her mom was here. Of course, she always did but it was worse now, this summer. She wanted her mom so much, her mom who'd been the one to make her hot soup when the little Katie had been sick, her mom who'd always had such patience with her bad temper.

"I know, Katie-bug. I miss her too," her dad sighed.

The use of the childish nickname set off a flare of warmth in her chest. In spite of everything, she was so glad to have her dad with her. She reached out to squeeze her dad's hand. "Thanks for taking care of me, Dad. I don't know how you put up with me and my bad moods."

"You know you don't need to thank me, Katie. I'm just glad I can be here for you. And you know, it's not all bad. We haven't been able to spend so much time together in years." Her dad managed a small smile that she returned.

"Even if I've been grumpy most of the time?"

"Even then, Katie. Taking care of you isn't a hardship for me; it's my privilege."

The near echo of Castle's words made her still for a moment—and then reminded her too of the other mention of her dad.

"Dad, can I ask you something?"

"Of course, Katie, anything."

"Castle mentioned something…"

Surprise flared over her dad's expression, followed immediately by a rather satisfied smile. "You've talked to Rick?"

Ridiculously, she felt herself flushing. "Yeah, I… finally called him."

Her dad's smile brightened. "Good, I'm glad."

"It was nice to talk to him again," she admitted, a severe understatement. "I shouldn't have waited so long." She might never forgive herself for it, for hurting Castle the way she had.

"You did need time to heal, Katie-girl," her dad said temperately.

Maybe so, but it didn't justify what she'd done. She saw that now. A line she'd read once somewhere returned to her mind: _never hurt the heart that loves you._ But she had.

She looked up at her dad. "Anyway, Castle said something about you, that you asked him to talk to me." What had Castle said, implied? "To make me walk away from the case?"

Her dad looked away for a moment, an expression that was an odd mixture of guilt and determination crossing his face, and then back at her. "Right, I guess it's time I tell you about that. I wasn't sure how to mention it before."

"You did talk to Castle? When?"

"I went to see Rick at his apartment after you told me about Lockwood escaping. I got Rick's address from Kevin," he added, inconsequentially.

"Oh. What did you say to Castle?"

Her dad hesitated and then he met her eyes squarely. "I asked him to try to get you to stop looking into your mother's case, asked him not to let you lose another 12 years of your life."

Kate supposed she shouldn't be surprised. If she'd thought about it, she could have guessed it from what little Castle had let slip, the way he'd tried to make her walk away. But somehow she was surprised—and couldn't help but feel a little betrayed, too, at the thought that her dad had gone to someone else—to Castle—behind her back and without her knowledge to talk about her and her life. Her life, her choice, her decision—and not even her dad had the right to try to make decisions for her.

But then she looked at her dad, saw the shadows under his eyes, the lines of weariness and worry etched in his face just from the last weeks, and her brief flicker of anger died. She might not like it but she couldn't blame her dad. "Dad, I…"

Her dad straightened up. "Now, Katie," he interrupted her, "I know you're probably mad at me for going behind your back but I'm not sorry I did it. I would do it again if I had to. In anything else, I wouldn't try to go behind your back; I know you too well for that but this was your mom's case, and you and I both know that when it comes to your mom's case, you have a hard time thinking clearly."

"I'm not mad at you, Dad," she finally said. "I… I wish you hadn't gone to Castle but I understand."

Her dad's expression and his tone eased as he went on. "You were so determined, had the bit between your teeth, when you called me and I knew you wouldn't listen to me."

"No, Dad," she protested softly. "I always listen to you. I would have listened."

Her dad managed a wan smile and gave a brief shake of his head. "No, Katie, I don't think you would have. I do know you, remember, Katie, and when you told me about what happened to Raglan, you didn't really listen to me then. This was about your job, Katie, and you don't really listen to me about your work, which I understand because I'm certainly not a cop and I admit I probably don't understand your work as well as I could."

Kate opened her mouth on an automatic denial but had to close it again because her dad did have a point. Even aside from the fact that she still tended to edit what she told her dad about her work, she knew herself too well to think she would have let her dad's words change her mind, not about her work, not about her mom's case. As she'd said to Castle, she was too stubborn for that. "But you could have talked to Esposito or Ryan or even Captain Montgomery," she finally said. "It was about work, as you said."

"Katie, I may not know that much about your work but I do know you and I know you wouldn't have listened to either Javier or Kevin. And as for your Captain…" he paused, his expression sobering at the memory of what had happened to Montgomery, "he had a duty to do too and I didn't want to put him in any sort of difficult situation by pressuring your boss to make decisions about your work based on a father's fears. And even if that weren't true, I would have gone to Rick anyway. I may not have met him before that day but I've listened to you talk about him for more than two years now and I knew if you listened to anyone about your mom's case, it would be Rick."

She could guess from what Castle had let slip too that Captain Montgomery had probably asked Castle something very similar. Montgomery might not have felt comfortable giving her a direct order to take her off the case but he also knew enough of what her mom's case did to her to have been worried.

And both her dad and Montgomery had turned to Castle.

She felt like that should have been surprising—or irritating (all these men trying to get another man to make decisions about her life for her)—or something but somehow, it wasn't. Her dad and Montgomery were the people who knew her the best (with the possible exception of Castle) and they both had believed Castle could get her to listen. Her dad really trusted Castle, she realized. Her dad wasn't naive and he was, at his core, a private person, much like her, but somehow, her dad trusted Castle and had gone to talk to him, a man he'd never even met before, about his worries over her.

And her dad had somehow realized that Castle had the strength of will to fight with her, that if anyone could break through her stubbornness, it would be Castle. Her dad and Montgomery weren't wrong about that. Castle was strong enough to challenge her. He didn't often show his strength overtly, easygoing as he was, but he did have it. Strong enough to challenge her, strong enough to carry her (both physically and emotionally). Just… strong enough for her.

Not even Esposito, for all his military toughness, would go toe to toe with her on something involving her mother's case. (And Ryan, as good a cop as he was, wouldn't challenge her either.)

And after everything that had happened, she couldn't be angry. Not at her dad or at Captain Montgomery or at Castle. They had all in their different ways done what they had out of… well, out of love and they hadn't actually made decisions about her life but only tried to persuade her to make a different decision.

It had been her decision, her choice, not to listen, to keep on pursuing her mom's case and Lockwood and not give up.

And her choice had almost killed her.

She sighed and met her dad's eyes. "I don't blame you, Dad. And you weren't wrong about Castle. He did try to make me walk away. We… we fought about it until I kicked him out," she admitted in a low voice. She had kicked him out, told him they were over, and told Captain Montgomery the same thing, and yet, Captain Montgomery had still called him out to the hangar afterwards. Captain Montgomery had known that even if she'd said her partnership with Castle was over, Castle wouldn't give up, would still come back and… and save her life.

Her dad studied her for a moment and then said, quietly, "He cares about you, Katie."

She felt herself flush, one hand automatically going up to flatten over the bandage on her chest. "I know," she choked out, trying not to succumb to the memory of his confession of love, mingled in with the burning pain in her chest as she bled out into the grass. She gripped the table edge tightly and forced herself to keep her eyes open, focusing on her dad's face.

"Now I don't claim to know Rick very well but I like him. I think he's good for you. Better than that doctor boyfriend of yours."

She stiffened a little at this reference to Josh. Her dad had only met Josh once before… the hospital although he'd obviously known about Josh for much longer than that. She had only mentioned to her dad briefly that she and Josh had broken up and her dad hadn't commented but it occurred to her now that there was an indefinable edge in her dad's tone as he spoke of Josh. And it was unlike her dad to not mention Josh by name, as if to distance himself from Josh. "Dad, you… don't like Josh much, do you?" she ventured, not quite a question.

Her dad cut his gaze away from her for a moment, looking towards the family photos on the wall, before meeting her eyes again. "It's not really my business, Katie," he hedged.

She narrowed her eyes at him. "Dad."

"Well, since you did break up with him…" Her dad paused, clearly trying to decide what to say. "I just don't approve of how he acted that day in the hospital, what he did."

She blinked and frowned. What Josh did? He had performed emergency surgery on her and literally saved her life. That couldn't possibly be what her dad didn't approve of. "What did Josh do?"

Her dad hesitated. "Rick didn't mention anything?"

Castle knew about it too? "Dad, tell me, what did Josh do?" she repeated.

"Sorry, Katie, I thought… I didn't mean to bring this up. Telling tales outside of class," he added with a little wry twist of his lips.

She was getting a very bad feeling about this. It wasn't like her dad to be so evasive. Not with her. Although she supposed it might partly be because of her relationship with Josh—her _former_ relationship with Josh. Her dad tended to skirt carefully around the subject of her love life. "Dad."

Her dad sighed a little. "I understand that he was upset at the time but… he, well, he stormed out of the operating room and accused Rick of getting you… hurt, that what happened was Rick's fault. It got a little heated, messy, until I stepped in."

Oh. Kate could guess from her dad's careful words what must have happened. She knew how men acted when tempers got heated, could imagine a physical altercation. And it wasn't as if she didn't know that Josh had never liked Castle. She felt a flare of anger at Josh, entirely pointless since she had no intention of contacting Josh again, but how _dare_ he? How could he do such a thing, say such a thing? He'd barely known the outlines of her mom's case, had not been involved with any of it—unlike Castle—and he dared blame Castle...

Oh god. No wonder Castle had blamed himself. She knew him well enough to know that tendency in him but then to have Josh outright accuse him of being to blame—and then she'd left Castle without a word for almost six weeks. And Castle had spent those six weeks thinking she was still with Josh. She flinched, her chest aching as if she'd just cracked a rib, at the thought of what Castle must have felt in those weeks.

God, what had she done? She could tell herself that she hadn't known, had never even dreamed that Castle would blame himself—and she realized now, in some irrational way, she'd somehow assumed that Castle would know she'd broken up with Josh. Lanie had known because she'd visited Kate in the hospital in time to see Josh storming out of Kate's room and she supposed she'd thought that Lanie would mention it to Esposito and Espo would mention it to Castle—but she realized belatedly just how unlikely a scenario that was. Even if Lanie had mentioned it to Espo—which she might or might not have thought to do—Espo was hardly the sort to pass the information onto anyone else.

She hadn't known, hadn't thought, and maybe under the circumstances, her failure to think clearly might be understandable—but she still didn't think she'd ever forgive herself.

"I had no idea," she finally said.

"I never meant to mention it and I imagine Rick wouldn't."

No, Castle wouldn't mention it. He hadn't mentioned it. She forced a wan attempt at a smile. "Well, I guess it's good that Josh and I already broke up because otherwise, I'd have a big fight with him about this."

Her dad studied her for a moment. "And what about Rick?"

It was her turn to cut her gaze away as she hesitated. "Castle and I are friends and… it's complicated," she finished lamely. They were friends and partners and… more than that. (Unbidden, his voice rang through her mind. _I don't know what we are. We kiss and we never talk about it. We nearly die, frozen in each other's arms, but we never talk about it. So no, I've got no clue what we are…_ )

"I don't mean to interfere, Katie. I admit that I don't know Rick that well but from what I do know of him, I think he's a good man and, I would guess, a loyal friend."

Yes, Castle was a loyal friend. Loyalty was probably one of his defining characteristics, almost as much as his boyish humor.

Her dad paused and then added, more quietly, "I know you care about him, Katie. Maybe it's time you let him help you a little." Her dad pushed himself to his feet. "Pasta for dinner sound okay?" he asked, his tone changing, becoming brisk, as if they'd just been chatting about the weather. She felt a little flicker of amusement and affection at this evidence of how well her dad knew her, that he would so obviously change the subject so she wouldn't need to do so herself, to avoid talking about the difficult subject of her feelings for Castle. Her dad wasn't one to belabor the point; he'd said what he needed to and now he would leave it to her.

"Pasta sounds great, Dad."

"Pasta it is."

Her dad busied himself making dinner while Kate helped in her own limited way (which wasn't much at this point). She and her dad chatted desultorily over dinner and listening to the radio broadcast of the Mets game afterwards but neither mentioned Castle again, although in Kate's case, at least, not talking about Castle meant that she thought about him more, if anything.

She called Castle again that evening after dinner.

"Beckett, this is a nice surprise."

He did sound pleased and she felt warmth settle in her chest. "Hey, Castle. I hope I'm not interrupting anything."

"No, you're not. I was just watching TV since Alexis went up to her room for her nightly phone call with Ashley."

"Oh." She paused and then went on, "Castle, I talked to my dad." And then abruptly realized how inane that statement sounded. Of course she talked to her dad; she and her dad were out at her dad's cabin.

"He wasn't mad, was he?" It wasn't really a question.

Mad? She blinked and belatedly remembered telling Castle about how she'd lost her temper at her dad. "Oh, no, he wasn't."

"Good. I told you he wouldn't be."

"No—yeah, that wasn't what I was talking about," she corrected herself awkwardly. God, what had she been thinking to call Castle again? Why had she thought she needed to bring this up again? But, she reminded herself again, she had realized they needed to talk about these things, the hard things.

"Okay," Castle said slowly. "What were you talking about?"

"I—he told me about going to see you, about asking you to make me walk away."

"Oh." He paused and then went on, hurriedly, "He was just worried about you, you know, and you can't blame him for that. And he didn't—it wasn't like he was betraying any confidences or anything."

"I'm not mad, Castle," she assured him, quickly, even as she felt a spasm of affection for him at his attempt to defend her dad, even from her. (She already knew her dad liked Castle but it occurred to her now that Castle also liked her dad. And that meant something too.) "At him or at you. I just… I wanted to let you know that I know and…" She trailed off, hesitating. Could she do this? Say this? But she had to. She knew she had to. She owed Castle this, at least. And after realizing how he'd blamed himself, she did need to do this. He'd saved her life at the hangar and he'd supported her in those first terrible days after Montgomery's death, had stood beside her at the funeral. He'd tried to take a bullet for her, had held her in his arms and pleaded with her to stay with him as she bled out into the grass. Fleeting images, memories—the shock of impact, the blue sky above her, Castle's desperate, begging eyes, his frantic whispered declaration, the burning pain—bombarded her and she felt her breathing become shallow and shook her head a little to try to clear away the memories. Forced herself to breathe slowly and evenly, her free hand going up to her chest, the bandage on it a reminder that she was alive.

She swallowed and forced herself to start again. The one more thing she needed to say to him to put his unnecessary guilt to rest. "I—I realized that I never told you… never said… thank you."

He sucked in a breath. "For what?" he asked, not quite evenly.

She shut her eyes and tried to steady her breath. This was hard—she never liked to talk about things like this, never liked to… express obligation—but she realized after a moment that, oddly (or not), this was still easier to do over the phone. When she couldn't see him, couldn't be faced with the look in his eyes, the way he looked at her sometimes and made her forget how to breathe, let alone think. "Thank you for… for trying. Trying to make me walk away, for… saving my life at the hangar that night. I just… thank you."

"No."

She blinked and frowned. No? "Castle…"

"I meant, you don't need to thank me. I—I'm your partner. And I'd made a promise to your dad, to Montgomery. I couldn't have done anything else. I didn't—I don't want anything to happen to you."

She heard the echo of what he'd said to her that night at in her apartment and felt something pinch her heart. "Still, thank you. I… I know you did it because you… care," she faltered. Because he loved her (had loved her?) but she couldn't say that. "And I'm sorry, for the things I said that night. I was… too stubborn… but I'm sorry."

"No, I… I'm sorry too, Beckett. I lost my temper and, well, if I hadn't, if I'd stayed calmer, maybe…"

"No, Castle, we talked about this, remember? There was nothing more you could have done. I'm too stubborn for that."

His only answer was a sigh and there was a long minute of silence, which he finally broke. "I guess... we could just agree that we both made mistakes and move on from there?"

"Yes, okay," she agreed.

"It's a deal," he said and she heard the first hint of a smile in his voice.

She managed a slightly wobbly smile in return and then after a moment, asked about Alexis and how her relationship with Ashley was going, which distracted Castle, and they talked for a little longer, sticking to safe, neutral subjects, before hanging up. And she thought that maybe now, they could both begin to heal from the wounds of that cataclysmic fight in her apartment, from all that had happened afterwards. Maybe now, they could be friends again, could get back what they'd had before.

 _~To be continued…~_

 _A/N 2: Thank you, everyone, for reading and reviewing._


	6. Chapter 6

Author's Note: This is something of a transitional chapter, a break from the heavy conversations Castle and Beckett still need to have.

 **The Space Between Us**

 _Chapter 6_

She called Castle again the next day.

He answered, sounding pleased but (this time) not quite as surprised to hear her voice and they talked and it was… not quite but almost like it had been before. There were a few awkward moments, pauses in their conversation, but not many. His humor appeared to have been largely restored and she found herself smiling for most of the call.

She told him about her dad's cabin and a little about the quiet routine she and her dad had fallen into over the last few weeks. He related Martha's latest dramatic tale, making her laugh at his (deliberately exaggerated) imitations of Martha's voice and manner.

She mentioned that she had finally called Lanie. (She did not mention that once Lanie had been immediately reassured of Kate's recovery, Lanie had reamed Kate out for her disappearance for about five minutes before calming and questioning Kate more thoroughly about how she was doing. Castle wasn't the only person she had hurt by her silence for all these weeks.)

Castle boasted about the fact that Alexis had (again) received straight A's in her classes this last semester and passed all her AP exams with almost all 5's with only one 4 to mar her otherwise perfect record, which Castle insisted must be either a fluke or a mistake or the product of some inexplicable, bizarre conspiracy on the part of the College Board to ensure that no high school junior received a perfect string of all 5's on her AP exams.

Kate laughed at him as he expounded on the theory (freely as she could tell from his tone that he wasn't serious about his conspiracy theory, was now just spinning a story for the fun of it, as he occasionally did). She relaxed onto her bed, letting the familiar cadences of his storytelling tone wash over her, filling her with an odd sort of warmth. She'd missed his stories and his theories, missed his storytelling voice for when he wove some tale to make the evidence make sense (not that she could admit it to him).

The call ended when Castle said that he'd promised to accompany Alexis out somewhere and Kate was surprised to see that they'd been on the phone for almost an hour. It hadn't felt like it.

She hadn't really planned it but she called him the day after that too because he'd mentioned that Martha had twisted her ankle slightly (because she'd made the mistake of trying to walk in the sand wearing high heels) and she really should call to see how Martha was doing. It was only polite, after all. And somehow, after she'd been updated on Martha's condition (resting her ankle for the day and self-medicating with expensive wine, from Castle's report, and the exaggerated grumbling in his tone had reassured Kate more than anything else that Martha was really uninjured since Castle was unconcerned), they had talked for another half hour or so.

She shared a few stories of her memories from the cabin when she'd been little, about how her dad had taught her to fish. He told some stories about past visits to the Hamptons, playing games with Alexis in the pool or at the beach.

"I bet you and Alexis had competitions about who could make the best sand you," she quipped.

There was a pause and then he gave a loud, exaggerated (and entirely fake) gasp. "Katherine Beckett! That was an absolutely terrible pun." He clicked his tongue in mock disappointment. "I expected better of you. I should report you to the pun police, if such a thing existed, which it totally should."

She felt her heart leap inside her chest at the way he was teasing her, that he felt comfortable enough to tease her again. And her impulse to make such a silly pun was entirely rewarded.

She grinned. "Yeah, well, I've been spending a lot of time these last few years with a certain writer who loves to make silly puns."

He gave a huff of laughter. "A writer, huh? Anyone I might have heard of?"

"Well, I am a one-writer girl so maybe you can guess."

She swore she could sense his smile. She could certainly picture it, his smile and the way his eyes would soften at her words. The same way he'd smiled at her the first time she'd told him she was a one-writer girl.

"Hmm, no, no idea," he joked.

She laughed softly. "Too bad. His books aren't that bad."

"Thank you. You're too kind," he rejoined dryly.

She laughed again, warmth—and hope—infusing her chest at this return to their usual banter. This felt like them again. She hadn't irreparably wrecked their relationship with the long weeks of silence.

The next day, her dad left her alone while he drove into town to get groceries and she attempted to read but found that she couldn't quite concentrate and she found herself calling Castle again because, well, she was bored and it was the middle of a work day so Lanie and the boys would be working so there was no one else she could call (not that she would have called up either of the boys just to chat anyway).

And the day after that, she had another flashback that left her sobbing and shaking and even after she'd managed to calm herself, she'd been upset at how far from okay she was, how damaged she still was, and she'd called Castle because she knew that talking to him would help. (Talking to him always helped.)

She didn't tell him about her flashbacks, didn't tell him why she was upset, let him assume it was merely about her physical discomfort. And he didn't press her on it, only proceeded to cheer her up in his inimitable fashion.

"Say, Beckett, I heard a joke the other day that reminded me of you. Want to hear it?"

"Sure, Castle."

"Have you heard about the man who went to jail for refusing to take a nap?"

She bit her lip but found herself smiling in spite of herself, even before he added the punch line.

"He was resisting a rest."

She burst out laughing, feeling a rush of warmth in her chest. It was—should have been—a rather silly joke but it was such a Castle-like thing to do, to tell a ridiculous joke like that to distract her and make her laugh.

He laughed too and she felt another spasm of missing him at the so-familiar sound, suddenly desperately wishing she could see him, the way his eyes crinkled and lit with sparks of humor when he laughed. Talking to him was a good thing, a great thing, but it wasn't the same as seeing him. But she didn't want him to see her yet, she reminded herself, not yet, not when she was still such a mess.

"Thanks for that, Castle."

"Anytime, Beckett. Silly jokes are all part of the service here at Richard Castle Enterprises."

She laughed again. "I haven't heard of that company. Is it like Wayne Enterprises?" she quipped.

"A Batman reference, I approve." The surprise, the glee, in his tone had her smiling all over again, felt a little flutter in her chest. It was silly of her to react so to his words but she couldn't deny the little thrill at, well, being able to please him, make him grin the way she knew he was.

"Is there a comic book reference you wouldn't approve of?"

"Hmm, let me think," he said in an exaggeratedly ponderous tone. "Nope. All comic books are cool, especially the Derrick Storm comic book, which is going to be epic," he added.

Oh, right, the Derrick Storm comic book. She remembered him mentioning that to her some time before Lockwood had escaped, it seemed like ages ago now. "Yeah, somehow I don't think Batman or the X-men are in any danger of losing their places in the comic book pantheon," she said dryly.

"Oh, give me time. Stan Lee has been around for ages and Derrick Storm's graphic novel career is just getting started," he boasted.

She laughed softly and let the warmth of his familiar display of ego and humor—the Castle she knew and, yes, loved—settle over her like a blanket, wrap around her, healing her tattered composure.

And that was how it started. She hadn't really planned it but calling him every day became part of her routine, a habit, and if she had to admit it, something of a need too. Because the calls with him were… fun; they made her smile and laugh and brightened her days so that somehow even the frustration of her slow recovery, the pain she still felt when she pushed herself too hard or moved wrong, seemed to weigh on her less. Now, on her walks as she tried to push herself further, she didn't constantly dwell on how much strength she'd lost, how far she still was to normal, but found herself thinking of things he'd said to her, planning things to say to him.

It was almost like it had been before, the friendship, the teasing, the banter. And yet, somehow, it was different too. Because before they had talked on the phone often but those calls had been brief, utilitarian, her calling him for a body drop and him calling her when he had an idea about their current case. They'd never called each other just to chat and they hadn't talked every day because in the days without a body drop or an active case, they hadn't talked at all.

This was different. It felt like a new phase in their friendship, somehow, to talk every day and without casework as an excuse. Before, she could tell herself that Castle was shadowing her for research purposes and she was putting up with him because of the Mayor's dictate, even if it hadn't really been true for, oh, more than a year now. But now, there was no excuse, no hiding behind research or working together. They were just… friends. (More than friends?)

She had (finally) stopped denying to herself that she wanted to be more than friends with Castle, stopped denying that she was in love with Castle.

And he… she didn't know anymore. He was mostly restored to his usual, funny self but he never said anything to her that he couldn't have said in front of her dad. There was no innuendo, no indication that he wanted to be anything more than friends.

And she couldn't ask. Not yet. Avoided the question and the damning confession for at least a little while longer. She couldn't bring it up, not when their relationship was so recently restored to what it had been, not when she was still so far away from being ready for anything more than friendship.

As if by tacit agreement, they hadn't touched on any weighty, more personal subjects in their conversations. And after the many weeks of silence, after how much she'd hurt him, it was enough to have their friendship back again. So their conversations stayed on safe ground.

Which was, again, like it had been before, the avoidance, the dancing around things.

Except it didn't really feel like that. Not to her, at least. Because while they might not have been talking about the emotionally fraught subjects further, it was still different because they had talked, some, already and because it seemed more like a pause in the more serious conversations than avoiding them entirely. And it was different because there was no pretense that she called him for any other reason than because she wanted to, because she liked to hear his voice, liked talking to him. And even if she wasn't telling him as much in so many words, she thought he had to know that.

So she called him every day and found that slowly, she told him a little about her recovery, about her lingering physical limitations. She didn't really intend it at first but things slipped out. They talked every day, after all, and she wasn't doing much to give her anything else to talk about.

She mentioned how easily she got tired still, mentioned that she still couldn't raise her arms over her head, although she did not explain that it was because lifting her arms pulled painfully on the surgical incision in her side. (Stupidly, irrationally, she didn't want him knowing about the incision, didn't want him picturing the long line of unsightly, disfiguring stitches up her side.) She mentioned, briefly, how frustratingly slow her physical recovery was going because it was frustrating. She prided herself on her strength and her self-control, had trained her body to be a machine of sorts, smoothly following all her commands, but now, she had no strength and little to no control left, her body no longer cooperating.

She didn't say much but he was smart enough, knew her well enough, for her to be sure that he could read between the lines, his imagination filling in more than enough of the rest of the picture. And that was easier over the phone, too, when she couldn't see the concern and the sympathy (or—she hoped not—the pity) softening his expression, his eyes. She still didn't want him to see her like this but somehow, talking to him about it over the phone was easier.

Talking to him was the best part of her day, every day. (As it had been, if she'd only admitted it, for much longer than just this summer.)

She felt herself smiling, a little glow of anticipation in her chest as usual, as she pressed the button to call Castle.

"Castle."

She blinked. He sounded… rather distracted. "Hey Castle, it's me."

"Oh, hi, Beckett." Now she frowned, wishing she could see his face. His tone was off, somehow. He sounded glum.

"Is something wrong, Castle?"

"No, no, nothing's wrong."

"Try again, Castle, I'm not buying it. You sound gloomy. What is it? Did you just discover that aliens aren't real?" she teased.

"There's no definitive proof that aliens don't exist so it stands to reason that they do," he shot back immediately.

She scoffed at this typically Castle-like piece of illogic. "You keep telling yourself that, Castle."

"I will, thanks," he returned, ignoring her sarcasm.

"Seriously, Castle, what's wrong?" Distraction aside, he still sounded off.

He hesitated and then sighed and finally answered, "It's Alexis."

Alexis?

"What happened? What did she do? Is she okay?"

Even as she asked, she realized the last question was silly. Whatever was wrong, Alexis was fine. She knew that. Castle sounded a little gloomy but he didn't sound frantic and if anything was wrong with Alexis, he would hardly be chatting on the phone with her.

"She's fine. She just… she finished her college application."

Alexis's college application? "Already? College applications aren't usually due until winter."

"Not usually but that's the thing. Alexis is applying for early admission, to Stanford, and she has enough credits to graduate early so she's going to be leaving in January."

Kate blinked. "Wow. That's exciting."

"Exciting isn't the word I would use. I'd go with tragic. Or catastrophic."

She couldn't quite help a small smile at his determinedly (and exaggeratedly) depressed tone, his melodramatic choice of words. "It's hardly a tragedy, Castle. Stanford is an amazing school with a beautiful campus; I think Alexis will have a great time."

"I don't want her to have a great time. I don't want her to leave for college so soon at all."

"You'd rather she be miserable at college?" she teased gently.

"Ha ha, Beckett, it's not funny. I'm not ready for my baby girl to be going to college."

"Alexis was going to leave for college soon anyway, Castle. She's going to be a senior in high school," she remind him.

"I know. I just… this all happened so much faster than I was expecting. I swear it was only the other day that I was teaching her how to tie her shoelaces."

She smiled, in spite of the wistfulness of his tone. He was such a good dad and the way he loved Alexis was one of the things she loved best about him. "I think it's been a little longer than that. She's practically a grown-up now."

"I don't want her to grow up," he huffed petulantly.

"You can't prevent it, Castle. She's not Peter Pan and you don't live in Neverland."

"I knew I should have moved."

She allowed herself a brief, mild laugh at this. "Too late now, Castle."

He sighed. "I mean, she told me about her decision to go to Stanford months ago and that was bad enough but now, with her application all done, it's just suddenly become _real_ and I don't know how I'm going to let her go."

She sobered. "January is five months away, Castle. And she'll still come home for visits and if you want to, you can call her every day."

"It won't be the same."

"No, it won't be the same," she agreed, "But it's time to let her leave the nest."

"But does she have to go so far? Stanford is on the other side of the country," he added, his tone edging perilously close to a whine.

"Well, maybe it'll be nice for Alexis to be closer to her mom," Kate suggested. "Meredith is out there, isn't she?"

Castle scoffed. "Clearly, you don't know Meredith very well or you wouldn't say that. Meredith is more like a crazy aunt who occasionally remembers Alexis's birthday and shows up at other random times but isn't really someone to rely on."

Kate changed tacks. Meredith wasn't a topic she wanted to discuss further. She might be curious about Castle's relationship with Meredith but she wasn't going to pry. It was none of her business. (At least, it wasn't yet.) "There are such things as planes so you can go out to visit Alexis too."

"I know, I know," he sighed. "I just… she grew up so fast and I… I miss my little girl." His voice softened, became reminiscent. "We used to do everything together. Tea parties with her dolls when she was really little, camping out in blanket forts and pretending we were on safari or something, movie nights…"

Kate had a sudden, vivid mental image of Castle folding his large form onto a kid-size chair as he pretended to sip imaginary tea from a tiny tea cup but the little girl opposite him—oh—her breath hitched—the little girl had brown hair and hazel eyes. _Whoa, there, Kate. Stop it!_ She felt a flutter of panic in her chest. That wasn't—she wasn't anywhere close to that. Shouldn't even imagine it. No, not going there. Not at all.

"Making gingerbread houses every Christmas, carving jack-o-lanterns for Halloween, playing laser tag…" He paused and then finished, sounding so desolate her heart pinched. "She used to say I was her best friend and now I can't imagine the house without her."

She'd known before now that Castle's world revolved around Alexis, his devotion to his daughter had been obvious from the beginning and it was one of the first things she'd liked about him, but now she realized the other side of the coin to that devotion, as it were. Realized what Castle wasn't, quite, saying, that he was going to be lonely without Alexis. Which was all too true. Martha was, she knew from Castle's stories, busy with her acting studio and her own friends and even if she weren't, she was Castle's mother after all. And Castle was a man who needed people.

"You'll still have me, " she blurted out unthinkingly. Wait. What?

He choked a little and she rushed on, words spilling out of her mouth. "I mean, I know I can't replace Alexis but I'm your friend and, well, I can join you for movie nights or playing laser-tag."

Oh god, what was she saying, babbling, in her wish to comfort him? When had her mouth slipped its leash and run away from her brain's control? She almost never spoke without thinking but apparently one side effect of spending so much time talking to him these last few days was that she'd gotten more used to talking to him, her guard lowering, and then in her rush of concern over him, well, it seemed for once her heart was leading, rather than her brain.

They'd never spent much time together outside of work, aside from going out for the occasional beer after closing a case or grabbing a burger at Remy's or something. Now she'd all but invited herself over to the loft and… and made it sound as if she were willing to spend her free time hanging out with him, comfort him in his loneliness after Alexis left. Just as if they were, would be… really together.

Oh god. She hadn't really thought—hadn't meant—but it wasn't really untrue, was it? She tried to calm the rabbiting of her heart.

She hadn't meant to say it but she did mean it. And after all, maybe this was what she needed to do. She wasn't ready for a relationship with him. She wasn't ready to admit that she remembered his graveyard confession. She wasn't even ready to see him again face to face. But she could give him this much, a tacit assurance that one day, she could be—would be—ready for more. Ready to dive into it with him. (Oh god. Her heart suddenly clenched in a spasm of longing. Because she wanted it, wanted to be ready, wanted to get better so she could, finally, be the Kate Beckett he already believed she was, be the Kate Beckett who deserved him and could be with him.)

He was silent for a few seconds and she felt herself blushing and was momentarily thankful that he couldn't see her. "I don't know, Beckett," he said, his voice sounding a little odd, as if he were forcing levity, "you're a trained professional so laser-tag against you wouldn't be a fair fight."

"I could have one arm tied behind my back if that would make you feel better," she quipped, taking refuge in their usual banter. Banter she could do.

He laughed and she found herself relaxing a little, almost in spite of herself.

"Somehow, Beckett, knowing you, I think you could probably beat me even then but we could give it a try."

She grinned. "If you say so."

"When you're fully recovered, of course. Not going to have you claim that I didn't beat you fair and square," he rallied.

"You're on, Castle."

Another few seconds of silence ticked by and she wondered what he was thinking, wished she could see his face to read his expression. Phone calls might be easier in one sense because she couldn't see him (couldn't see the way the look in his eyes sometimes made her mind go utterly blank, overwhelming her) and he couldn't see her, her wan and pale shadow of her usual self, but at times like this, it was harder too.

"And you know you can invite the boys over for video games or poker nights," she suggested more to break the silence than anything else.

"That's an idea. We should have more poker nights," he agreed.

"See, Castle? It's not the end of the world."

He huffed a soft laugh. "You're right, Beckett. As always." He paused and then added, more seriously, "I'm just going to miss her."

"I know, Castle," she said softly. "Because you're a good dad. But Castle, no matter how much she grows up, she'll still need you. I still needed—" she broke off abruptly. She'd still needed her parents when she'd been in college. But she'd lost them. First her mom and then her dad, losing him to grief and the bottle. She didn't talk about that time, couldn't talk about that time.

And she had her dad back now, she reminded herself firmly, pushing back the emotions.

"I'm sorry."

She blinked rapidly and managed a watery smile. "It's okay, Castle. I just meant… Alexis will still need you."

"Thank you, Kate."

She shut her eyes for a moment, feeling a little tendril of warmth as she always did when he used her first name. She liked the sound of her first name on his lips, the way his tone softened the hard consonants, k and t, to make her name sound almost like an endearment.

"Anytime. It's what friends do, right?"

"Right," he repeated slowly.

She changed the subject to tell him about her parents dropping her off at Stanford for orientation her first year, distracting him nicely (as she'd known it would.) He always was interested in her stories. She knew part of it was Castle's insatiable curiosity and general interest in people but it was also partly—mostly—because it was her and somehow, he always wanted to know more about her. She didn't know how or why he found her so endlessly fascinating but somehow, he did. (Then again, maybe she did understand it because she liked to hear his stories about himself too.)

He listened and made some characteristically teasing comments and she smiled to hear the honest mirth in his tone, worlds removed from his earlier melancholy.

It wouldn't be easy for Castle to let Alexis go off to college but she thought, she hoped, she could make it somewhat easier for him, make him feel a little better about it. Help him as he always helped her.

Because they were friends and partners. At least for now. But one day, maybe, hopefully, one day _soon_ , they would be more.

 _~To be continued…~_


	7. Chapter 7

Author's Note: Getting back into the serious conversations Castle and Beckett need to have, at least somewhat.

 **The Space Between Us**

 _Chapter 7_

 _Hi, you've reached Rick Castle. Leave a message and I'll get back to you._

"Hey, Castle, it's me. I guess… you must be busy or something. It's nothing urgent. I'll just… call again later."

Kate felt awkward, a little uncertain, leaving the message. It was the first time in more than a week, the first time since, well, she'd finally given in and called him that first time that he hadn't answered when she called. And if she'd been in any doubt as to how much she looked forward to these daily conversations with Castle, the extent of her disappointment now would have proved it to her.

It was silly to feel so let down. It wasn't as if she expected Castle to sit around all day and wait for her to call. She didn't even want him to do that.

She was being ridiculous. So she told herself firmly as she instead picked up the latest James Patterson book, smiling to herself as she thought about how Castle would react when she happened to mention that she was reading it. (Her dad had driven out to the next town over where the closest local library was and checked out a few books, including _Gathering Storm_ and _Heat Wave_ , as a way of teasing her).

Later, she had dinner with her dad and then listened to the first couple innings of the radio broadcast of the Mets game before she retreated into her own room. Castle hadn't called her back and she directed a bemused frown at her cell phone before making a quick decision to try calling again. She had said she would call again and maybe he was waiting for her to do so. (It seemed unlike him but it was always possible.)

This time, he answered before the phone had finished ringing once. "Beckett, hi. Nice timing. I was just about to call you."

She smiled, her heart lifting a little just at the sound of his voice. "Hey, Castle. Busy day?"

"You could say that. Sorry I missed your call earlier but I'd turned my phone off while I was trying to power through the edits for _Heat Rises_."

" _Heat Rises_? I take it that's the title of the next Nikki Heat book."

"How'd you guess?" he quipped.

She huffed a laugh. "Did you finish up the edits then?"

"Yup, I did. And have just sent them off to Gina so that'll keep her off my back for a little while."

" _Heat Rises_ , huh? Catchy title."

"I thought so," he said rather smugly. And adorably. Because she could all too easily picture the smirk on his lips, the quirk of his eyebrows, the brightness of his eyes. (Damn. When had his ego started to be amusing instead of annoying?) "And I think you'll like the cover art for this book."

She raised her eyebrows. "Oh, will I? The cover art is elegant and classy?" she suggested wryly.

"I wouldn't go _that_ far. It's still one of my books and Black Pawn tries to stick to a common theme in cover art to make the books distinctive."

"There just isn't a naked silhouette of her on the cover then."

"Right."

"Well, I suppose that's something," she said with exaggerated resignation.

"Don't sound like that, Beckett. I promise it's not so bad. And anyway, the book is going to be great. It's the best Nikki Heat book yet."

She couldn't help but smirk. (Oh, she did have it bad when his cockiness only made her want to laugh rather than hit him.) "In your totally unbiased opinion?" she teased.

"Actually, no, Gina says so too and since she never praises me if she can help it, you know it has to be true. Gina says it's not just the best Nikki Heat book but the best book I've written in years. And as much as I hate to admit it, she might be right. This one has an emotional resonance to it, not just suspense, if I do say so myself."

"The best mystery novel since Agatha Christie's _And Then There Were None_?" she mocked lightly, even as she felt a fleeting moment of unreality break over her. She was listening to her favorite living author talk about one of his books even before it was published. And more than that, she hadn't really heard Castle talk about his books, at least in terms of comparison and not in any seriousness. So this sort of talk about his writing was new.

He laughed. "Hey, I don't claim to be able to equal Dame Agatha. Anyway, I've always been more of a fan of _The Murder of Roger Ackroyd_. As an example of the mystery writer's craft, it's masterly."

"An example of the mystery writer's craft, huh?" she repeated teasingly. "Gee, Castle, anyone would think you were a mystery writer."

"Haha, Beckett, very funny."

She hesitated, feeling absurdly embarrassed, almost shy, about what she wanted to ask, but then plowed ahead because it wasn't as if he didn't already know that she read his books, liked his books. "Will you let me read it before it's finally published?"

There was a brief pause in which she decided that if he laughed at her, she might have to kill him but then, he answered, "Of course. I'll send one of the advance author copies to you."

He wasn't laughing. "Thanks, Castle. I'll even promise to be nice and not tell you if I don't like it," she added teasingly. (Not that there was any likelihood of that. She'd liked all of his books, even ones like _Hell Hath No Fury_ and _A Skull in Springtime_ that were among the least popular of his books.)

"You'll like it, Beckett," he assured her with all his usual cockiness. "I told you even Gina likes it and she's still mad at me so if anything, she'd be looking for excuses to criticize."

The mention of Gina tugged at her (again) and she found herself asking, her curiosity getting the better of her, "What do you mean that Gina's mad at you? What'd you do?" She'd asked it but the moment she did, she regretted it. She really shouldn't go there. Gina was something of a sore subject with her, even now. Not that he knew that, of course. But every mention of the woman's name and Kate felt as if she were back in the precinct last summer, watching Castle walk away with his arm around Gina, felt again the lurch in her chest at the sound of the other woman's voice, the sick realization that she'd waited too long and he had moved on.

That wasn't going to happen again. It wasn't. Their relationship was… different now. Stronger. It was. Wasn't it? They were talking every day. There was no excuse of casework or research. But she still hadn't told him she remembered what he'd said. And he had never said it again. Aside from that first time when he'd returned her call, he had never been the one to call her. (Did that matter?)

"Gina's still mad because of how late I was with the first draft of _Heat Rises_. I think she was ready to decapitate me by the time I finally turned it in."

"Oh" was all she said, not quite sure how to respond.

"Turns out it's hard to write when your muse has gone missing."

His tone was light but Kate couldn't quite help a little flinch, felt a sharp sting of hurt. It wasn't the first time Castle had referred to her as his muse but she couldn't help but wonder if that was all he wanted from her now. His muse—she tried to tell herself she was being oversensitive but her lingering doubts, her insecurities, whispered at her insidiously, inescapably. He'd said he'd missed her but maybe that was because he wanted to be able to write, nothing more personal. He'd stopped making innuendos and it wasn't as if she felt remotely like herself. She suddenly remembered the way Castle had stared at her as she emerged from the pool in LA when she'd gone undercover to contact Gans—and flinched again. She wasn't that woman anymore. She was damaged, wounded and scarred, and so weak she wouldn't even be capable of climbing out of a pool right now. She wasn't even a detective right now, not really.

His muse had gone missing. He wasn't wrong, after all, because the woman who had inspired him to create Nikki Heat was gone. She wasn't that woman anymore, wondered if she could ever be that woman again.

She wasn't… the woman he'd fallen in love with. (Could he—did he—still love her now, the one who'd fled from the City because she couldn't bear the noise or the crowds, the one who flinched at every loud noise, who couldn't even admit to hearing his confession of love because it was too tangled up in everything else?)

"Oh," she faltered again, lamely. "I'm… sorry." She was the one who'd done this to herself, her own stubbornness and inability to walk away driving her into the crossfire.

"You're—what? Oh god, Beckett, no, I wasn't trying to blame you," he blurted out quickly. "It's just… me. I don't write well when I'm upset and after everything that happened, with Montgomery and, well, everything, I just… couldn't write for a while."

She blinked and felt the absurd urge to cry or maybe even laugh a little hysterically. Castle's reassurance, as nice as it was, wasn't really to the purpose. He didn't get it, hadn't understood the insecurities his words had pricked. But why should he? She always tried so hard to hide her insecurities, never liked admitting any vulnerabilities. And even their daily phone calls hadn't miraculously obviated their ability to speak at cross-purposes and misunderstand each other. She was trying to get better, trying to let him in more, but her throat still closed up on any explanation of her insecurities, her doubts. It was too tied up with her lie and she was, still, terrified to bring it up, terrified to bare her heart to him to that extent. She wasn't strong enough, wasn't brave enough. Her damaged heart couldn't take it.

"Also after everything that happened, I ended up needing to rewrite half the book."

"Oh." She hesitated and then managed to ask, "Does Nikki get shot?" The stark words of what had happened to her seemed to come back and hit her like a blow to the head or, more accurately, her chest. Her hand automatically came up over the bandage on her chest, feeling, again, the phantom impact of the bullet, the burning pain, the inability to breathe. Her breathing became shallow, her vision starting to blur. Shit. Oh god. Oh no. She couldn't do this, couldn't have a flashback while on the phone with Castle. Couldn't have him find out just how broken she was. She couldn't! She forced her eyes open, focused on the familiar furnishings of her room, the pattern on her bedspread. She wasn't in the cemetery, she was fine.

The sound of her heartbeat was too loud in her own ears but over it, through it, she heard his emphatic response as if from very far away. "—do that. I couldn't do that to her."

She forcibly regulated her breathing, found her voice. "Oh... good," she managed to say, her voice sounding odd to her own ears.

He paused and then blurted out, "I wrote about Montgomery. That's what I was rewriting."

"Montgomery," she repeated, feeling like she was sounding like an idiot or at the very least, someone with a very limited vocabulary, but it was as much as she could manage, while trying to keep her emotions, her reactions, at bay.

"I mean, not about what he did years ago with Raglan or… or anything like that. Not about your mom's case. I wouldn't do that. What Montgomery did years ago, that stays between us. I wouldn't put it into a book," he finished in a rush.

She felt a small spark of warmth kindle inside her, easing her tension a little. "I never thought you would," she told him honestly. She trusted him more than that. She might not be thrilled about his giving Nikki Heat a backstory involving a mother's murder but she did trust his discretion. Castle, of all people, would understand what the truth about Montgomery's involvement in those kidnappings years ago would do to Montgomery's family and he wouldn't risk that. Would never harm the innocent like that. And he would be too loyal to Montgomery's memory to do that too.

"I rewrote the book to be something of a tribute to Montgomery, the kind of cop he really was."

Tears pricked at the back of her eyes at the thought of Montgomery, her captain, her mentor, the one who'd taught her so much. Who'd sacrificed his life to keep her safe. She swallowed the lump of emotion. "That sounds… nice."

"I'm thinking about dedicating the book to his memory," he added but this time, there was a little uncertainty in his voice, an unspoken question, as if he felt he needed to get her approval. Because the other Nikki Heat books had been dedicated to her. _The extraordinary KB._ Affection for him unfurled inside her chest, filling it, and she latched onto it, latched onto his words about her—he thought she was extraordinary—and somehow felt calmer.

"That's nice," she said again. "I'm sure he would have appreciated that."

"Do you think so?"

Oh, this man, this sweet man. Captain Montgomery's voice played in her mind. _I saw how good he was for you._ Captain Montgomery was right. Castle was good for her. He made her work more fun. More than that, he made her life better.

She managed a watery smile. "I'm sure. Montgomery liked you, you know. Why else do you think he let you hang around and shadow me for so long?"

"I'm friends with the Mayor."

"It wasn't only that. Montgomery told me he could have kicked you out because he ran the 12th, no matter what the Mayor says, but he didn't because he saw that I wasn't having fun before but then you made work more fun."

"The school's funniest kid, that's me," he said with what sounded like an attempt at levity but there was an odd edge to his voice.

The school's funniest kid. For a second, she couldn't remember why the phrase sounded familiar but then she remembered that fight in her apartment, how she'd lost her temper.

She felt something pinch her heart. Oh god, he didn't—could he really think that was all he was? She suddenly remembered the way he'd blamed himself, reminded of the fact that his cockiness was in many ways a shield to hide his own vulnerability. (And she of all people understood that.) His sense of fun, his ability to find humor in most things, was one of the things she appreciated most about him but he was so much more than that. He helped her in so many ways. He had to know that by now. Didn't he?

"Castle, you know that's not all you are. That's not all that you do. You…" She paused, hesitated, but then decided. He deserved to know. She'd never told him before, hadn't wanted to admit how much of a role he played in it.

"I what?"

"You didn't only make work more fun. You helped. You made our case closure rate go up."

He was silent for a beat and then, "I did?"

Somehow, she found herself smiling. "Yeah, Castle, you did. You know the Department keeps stats on closure rates for homicide teams to help with promotion decisions and bonuses and things like that."

"I know that," he confirmed. "And you and the boys always had the highest clearance rate."

She blinked. He knew that? "Maybe, but after you started working with us, our team's case closure rate improved even more. Montgomery could see that, knew you were helpful."

"Wow, Beckett, I'm impressed. I know how much cops hate to admit that a civilian might be as good at solving crimes as they are," he joked although his levity sounded somewhat artificial.

"I don't think it's all about you, Castle," she returned, falling in with his banter. It was comfortable, easy. But for all that, her tone was more serious than not when she added, "I think it's because we make a good team."

"Like Turner and Hooch," he joined in.

She smiled, remembering that moment. She'd been mad at him for looking into her mom's case and yet, he'd still been able to make her smile, tease him. "Well, you do remind me a little of Hooch, remember?"

He gave a brief chuckle. "You're mean, Beckett. Just for that, I won't dedicate this next book to you."

She abruptly sobered. "No, dedicating it to Captain Montgomery is better," she said quietly.

"Yeah, you're right," he agreed, returning to seriousness. "And I think I'm going to arrange for the royalties from _Heat Rises_ to go to the NYPD Widows and Orphans Fund."

Oh this man. How had she ever thought he was just a frivolous jackass playboy? Except he hid his real self too, she suddenly thought. He hid the real caring man behind the frivolous playboy façade, as much as she hid her own vulnerabilities behind her shield, her Detective Beckett persona. They weren't that different in some ways.

But she knew the real Rick Castle now. And he was a good man, a better man than even she'd known.

"That's a nice idea," she managed softly.

"Seems like the least I could do to honor Montgomery's memory. He was… a good man."

Her throat felt tight with grief. "Yes, he was," she agreed very quietly. In spite of the mistakes he'd made before. Kate thought about the man she'd known, the one who had trained her, taught her so much, not merely by his instructions and his leadership but by example. As betrayed as she had felt on learning about his involvement in the conspiracy that had led to her mom's death, as hurt as she had been, she still believed that Montgomery was a good man.

"Goethe said, 'A good man apologizes for the mistakes of the past but a great man corrects them.' That's what Montgomery did, what he died trying to do. I want to honor that, honor his memory. My books might not be much in the larger scheme of things but it's what I can do."

"Your book is a lot. It means a lot," she managed to choke out, feeling a fresh surge of grief at the thought of Montgomery. Because of her own shooting—she tried not to flinch at the word—she felt as if she hadn't yet been able to fully grieve for Montgomery, to come to terms with his death. The days immediately after his death, she'd done as much as she could to batten down her emotions, shutting them up behind a steel door to allow her to get through the immediate necessity of writing up the report of his death for One PP in such a way as to avoid any suspicion falling on Montgomery, of making his funeral arrangements. It had been all the more necessary because she had perforce needed to talk to Evelyn several times in those few days to deal with the funeral arrangements. She was still haunted by nightmares about the hangar, her mind filling in what had happened, helped by the reports from CSU and ballistics who had done the work to fill in the way the final, fatal gunfight between Montgomery and Lockwood had gone down. And she wondered if she could have saved him, if her training and her gun would have evened the odds and let them both survive. Now, with the added perspective brought on by the passage of time, her rational self doubted it but part of her still wondered, what if…

And tangled up with everything, was Castle. Castle, who had made a promise to her dad and to Montgomery and saved her that night. Castle, who had shown up at the precinct every day leading up to the funeral and helped as much as he could, helped more by his presence than by any tangible actions. Castle, who had stood up beside her for the eulogy, somehow shoring up her strength so she could get through it. Castle, who had tried to save her life, take the bullet for her. And blamed himself for not managing it, as if he believed he should be faster than a speeding bullet.

She sniffed and swiped away her tears with a trembling hand.

She knew she'd been silent for too long when he ventured, "Beckett? Kate, are you okay?"

She swallowed back the lump of unshed tears in her throat. "Yeah," she managed. "I just… I can't imagine the precinct without him."

"Yeah," he sighed. "It's not going to be the same without Montgomery."

"I'm going to miss him." She couldn't imagine working for anyone else, not when there was more she could still have learned from him. She wasn't arrogant enough to believe that she'd learned everything Montgomery could have taught her, everything there was to know about homicide. The memory of Montgomery on what was almost the last conversation she had with him, that day in his office, flashed into her mind. _You're the best I ever trained, the best I've ever seen…_ But Montgomery was the one who had taught her everything she knew about homicide. "Royce…" her voice faltered a little over the name before she controlled it and went on, "Royce taught me how to be a cop but it was Montgomery that trained me in homicide, taught me how to be a detective and not just a beat cop. He made me what I am." And now, she didn't know if she could ever be that cop again. How could she be a cop if she spooked at every loud noise, imagined a sniper behind every flash of light? But she couldn't put her insecurities, her doubts, into words.

There was a pause and then Castle spoke, cautiously, "I don't know if I'd say that, Beckett. Montgomery trained you and taught you how to be a detective, yes, he made you a good cop. But your tenacity, your cleverness, those are what make you a great cop and those can't be taught."

She felt a little flare of warmth at his words and for the first time, really felt as if she could, after all, be the cop she had been again. She hadn't lost all of what made her Detective Kate Beckett, as he said, and she was getting stronger. She would get better. And she would have Castle, to remind her when she doubted it. (How did he do that, have the words to reassure her when he didn't even know about her doubts?)

"And there's also your compassion, the way you can talk to victims' families, that's you, Beckett. Montgomery told me once you were the best at it of anyone he knew."

She choked a little. "Castle, that's… that's because I've been there. And I wouldn't wish that knowledge on anyone."

"No, I know," he said gently, his voice ineffably soothing. (She suddenly, randomly wondered if he ever read for audiobooks. He ought to.) "I just meant that it's part of what makes you extraordinary. You used the experience and let it make you the best cop in the City." He paused and then added, "Do you know why I based Nikki Heat on you?"

She gave a wobbly smile, remembering a moment more than a year ago when he'd asked her that. The way he'd known, somehow, that making her laugh, breaking the tension, was what she needed to hear in that moment before confronting Dick Coonan. (How did he understand her so well?) "Because I'm tall, right?"

She heard his faint smile in his voice. "Well, that too, of course. But really," he went on soberly, "the reason I based Nikki Heat on you is because of the way you overcame your past, took what would have been a weakness in anyone else and made it a strength. That's what inspired me years ago. It's what still inspires me."

Oh. Oh god. What could she possibly say to that? She inspired him? But he didn't really know, didn't see how broken she was now, how fragile. Didn't know how little she deserved his faith in her, even as she so desperately wanted to be the woman he believed her to be. Every day, it was what she was working towards, she sometimes thought, what kept her going. This was why she needed him. When her body ached so she was convinced she would never get back to the shape she'd been in, she forced herself to go on, not only for herself but for him, so she could be the Kate Beckett he already believed she was. His faith in her gave her the strength to try to be the person he already believed she was. So she could deserve him and be loved by him and love him back the way she wished she could.

"But of course, if you'd been short, none of that would have mattered," he joked into the silence.

She choked on a watery laugh. Oh, this man! How did he know to dissolve her choking emotion with humor?

"I think your fixation on my height is a little freakish," she managed to say, trying—and failing—to match his humor.

"You can't tell me that you wear those insane heels of yours only for the fun of it and not for the stature they give you," he parried. "Natalie Rhodes noticed it too, remember?"

Oddly—or not—the mention of Natalie Rhodes dissipated her lingering emotion, restored her equanimity at least somewhat, allowing her to quip, "'Size matters not. Judge me by my size, do you?'"

"Beckett! Did you just quote Yoda at me?"

He sounded ridiculously delighted and she couldn't help but smile. "Maybe," she prevaricated, even as she felt herself flush. She had, of course. And known he would react like this.

"Kate Beckett, that is the hottest thing I've ever heard you say."

She laughed, unable to deny the flutter inside her at his words. The closest he'd come to an innuendo. "Me saying maybe is hot?" she deliberately misunderstood.

He scoffed. "No, you quoting _Star Wars_ is hot."

He did still want her. Even when the last time he'd seen her had been in the hospital, pale and wan and unable to so much as lift her arms without pain.

"It seems fitting since I can't wear a bra right now and George Lucas did tell Carrie Fisher that there are no bras in space."

He choked on air and abruptly fell into a coughing fit and she belatedly realized what she'd said, what she'd admitted.

Shit. She blushed hotly. She hadn't meant to tell him that. Didn't want him to be able to imagine the still-healing wound on her chest, the fact that she couldn't wear a bra because it would interfere with the bandages on her chest and on her side.

Not talking might have been better, she decided. Talking to avoid telling him about other things she didn't want to speak about was clearly not working well for her.

But as much as she hadn't meant to blurt out any such thing, his reaction spoke volumes about his continuing to want her. It was reassuring in a way she hadn't even realized she'd needed so much.

(But he didn't know about her surgical incision, her scars, a voice whispered inside her mind, and she tried not to wince. Wished she didn't care so much but she did. She really did. It was so stupid, so irrational. The incision had saved her life and what did a couple scars matter against that? But somehow, she did care. The permanent disfiguring marks marring her skin, a reminder that she was broken, damaged.)

He coughed more and then cleared his throat a few times before he finally said, "I had no idea you were such a geek."

She was glad he couldn't see her blush. She forcibly controlled her tone to match his lightness, "What you don't know about me could fill a book."

"Well, I'd like—" he broke off abruptly and then after a moment, began again, his tone oddly different in a way she couldn't describe, "I have no doubt about that."

He'd like what? What had he been about to say? She had the sudden, irrational sense that it had been something important (which made no sense because they were avoiding awkwardness by engaging in some of their usual badinage—right?)—but he'd changed his mind, thought better of it. Why?

She felt inexplicably let down and had to force her voice to sound casual. "A girl has to have some secrets, Castle. Wouldn't want you to get bored."

He snorted. "I'd like to see you try. I can think of a lot of words to describe you, Beckett, but boring isn't one of them."

"For what it's worth, you're not boring either," she offered lightly.

"Why, thank you, Beckett. I do my poor best not to bore you," he returned ironically.

She laughed—and marveled not for the first time at how easily he could make her laugh. She wasn't really one to laugh that easily or often but with him, mirth came more easily, brightening her life. And she wondered if she could really be enough for him. He deserved to be with someone who could brighten his life the way he did hers and she was… a damaged, lonely cop in a life that dealt with violence and death and darkness.

But, she reminded herself, he was a mystery writer. He'd been interested in murder and the macabre long before he'd met her and he still kept coming back. And he knew her. By now, she thought he might know her better than anyone except for her dad. And he could still say, that wonderful, terrifying, emotional night in Los Angeles, that he thought she was a mystery he was never going to solve.

And if he still wanted her, if he still loved her, she wanted to be with him, wanted to get better, become stronger, so she could dive into it with him.

 _~To be continued…~_

 _A/N 2: Thank you, as always, to all readers and reviewers, especially the Guest (and unlogged in) reviewers whom I can't thank directly._


	8. Chapter 8

Author's Note: In case you thought it was going to be smooth sailing for Castle and Beckett from now on… Brace yourselves, breakers ahead in the next couple chapters.

 **The Space Between Us**

 _Chapter 8_

Kate jolted a little painfully at the sound of her phone ringing, the suddenness of it, the unexpectedness of it slicing through her nerves, setting her heart rate leaping.

God, she hated this, hated how badly she reacted to any sort of surprise, how strong her startle reflex was. (And if she reacted this badly to something as trivial as her phone ringing, she didn't know how she was supposed to go back to work and face actual risks.)

But one look at her phone had her relaxing, a little flutter in her chest, a faint smile tugging at her lips. Because it was Castle. Castle, calling her for the first time since they'd started talking again.

It had been months since he'd used her phone to take a silly selfie of himself smirking and then made it his profile picture on her contacts list and she'd snatched her phone out of his hand, scolding him, but she'd never bothered to change the picture. And now the sight of his so familiar, so dear smirking face somehow had her calming, even as her unreliable heart skipped a beat or two.

It was early. She'd just finished brushing her hair, a tediously laborious process these days since she could only lift her arm up in order to brush her hair in brief stretches of time before it started to pull too painfully on the incision in her side. She hadn't even seen or talked to her dad yet this morning but now she'd be talking to Castle. She wanted him to be the first person she saw every morning, wanted to be able to open her eyes and see his sleeping face on the pillow beside her. Oh. Yeah, she really wanted that…

She felt a happy flutter of anticipation inside her as she pressed the button to accept the call. "Good morning, Castle."

"Beckett!" He paused and then added, belatedly, "Morning. I hope I'm not calling too early."

She blinked, the warm little flush inside her fading. There was something… odd… about his tone. She couldn't quite identify what it was but he sounded different, unlike himself. And why did he sound oddly out of breath? She could hear the faint sound of shallow breaths over the line. "No, I was awake."

"Good. Good. That's good," he repeated and she had the sudden mental image of him nodding his head like a bobblehead. "I was just… making coffee and that made me think of you so, you know, I thought I'd call and see how you were on this fine morning."

"I'm fine," she answered automatically and then added inanely, "I was just brushing my hair."

"Oh. Sorry to interrupt your beauty routine, Beckett," he ventured gamely.

Now she frowned. The words were like what he would say but his tone was still… off. "Don't worry about it. Castle, is something wrong?"

"Wrong? No, no, of course not." He gave a brief chuckle that had her frown deepening because she knew what his laugh sounded like and this one sounded forced, artificial. "I'm just waiting for Alexis to wake up because I promised her we'd spend the day on the beach just like we used to, you know, making sand-me's," he added, repeating her (lame) pun on his name from days ago.

She didn't smile, feeling a spike of worry. He was evading. She knew it. She could hear it in his tone and every well-developed instinct she had for evasion was telling her so. "Castle, stop it. What's wrong?"

"Nothing. I'm fine," he said quickly. Too quickly and too emphatically. Protesting too much.

Oh. Oh wait. Her brain belatedly kicked into gear, pieces falling into place. (Detective, right.) The sound of his fast, shallow breaths when he greeted her. The undertone of tension in his voice. And why he'd felt the need to call her first thing in the morning when their phone calls had usually occurred in the evenings, although she had called him in the afternoon a couple times.

No. Oh god no. Please, no.

She knew—thought she knew—what this was. She was too familiar with the signs herself. But she'd never thought—never wanted—please, please, please, let her be wrong. She desperately wanted to be wrong.

But she still felt the nasty twisting in her gut that told her she wasn't.

"Castle, did you… have a nightmare?"

There was a long pause that revealed the answer and she felt her heart ache. Oh god, Castle…

"Don't worry about it, Beckett," he finally answered, his voice carefully controlled and she felt a sharp spasm of something like hurt.

He didn't want her to worry. Didn't want her to know about his nightmares, which, she guessed, involved her, what had happened to her.

And that _hurt_.

Oh god, she really did love him.

She had thought it before, acknowledged it to herself weeks ago, but somehow, it was only now that she really understood just what that meant, what was so different about her feelings for Castle than anything she'd ever felt before.

She'd honestly cared about Will, thought she could love him one day, thought she could be—was—happy with him but she hadn't felt like this about Will, this visceral worry that clawed at her insides and wouldn't let her go, this need to help him. Admittedly, Will had been a practical, straightforward person, not overly given to brooding over his work or anything but even so, it hadn't been remotely the same. Even when Will had been shot in that mob case a few years ago, she remembered, she'd been worried about him, of course, had hated the idea of him being hurt, had brought him sprinkle donuts to cheer him up. But once she was assured of his recovery, she'd been able to return to her own life.

Now, with Castle, it was different. The mere thought of Castle getting shot made her feel sick but even the thought of him suffering from nightmares, ones that were bad enough to leave him panicked and needing to call her first thing just to get reassurance that she was alive and well—oh, she knew all too well what that was like. And the thought of _Castle_ feeling like that…

At that moment, if she could have crawled into the telephone line to get closer to him, she would have. Teleported to be with him. (She really had been talking to Castle too much when she thought in such terms but it was true.) The thought of him alone and suffering made her almost physically ache. She wanted to help him, wanted to—she didn't even know what, it wasn't as if she had any experience with loving someone like this, being in a relationship of the sort she wanted to have with Castle—put her arms around him and hold him, wanted to smooth the frown lines around his eyes and over his forehead with her fingers, wanted to kiss the shadows beneath his eyes, wanted to make him smile again.

Yes, that was really it. She wanted to make him smile again.

The way he'd been making her smile for these last days, weeks—oh, who was she kidding, years since the moment she'd seen him at his book release party almost three years ago.

She swallowed back the lump in her throat and managed to say, "That's not going to work, Castle. Since when do I do what you tell me to?"

She was rewarded by a brief huff that might have held the beginnings of a laugh. "Point taken. But really, I'm—I'll be okay, Beckett. It's… better since I can hear your voice."

Oh. He'd had nightmares before, in all those weeks of silence. (Stupid, of course he must have.)

"Oh. Have you had a lot of nightmares?" she faltered.

He hesitated again. "A few," he finally responded tersely. Her heart clenched because she knew he was lying—or not lying so much as understating the truth by quite a bit, if she were to guess. She could hear it in the thread of tension in his voice. Could imagine it based on her own experience.

But she hadn't thought that Castle might suffer from nightmares too. She associated him with silliness and laughter. He was the incurable optimist, the perennial man-child, the one who was able to find humor in almost everything and had made her own life so much brighter because of it.

But she hadn't taken into account how much Castle _cared_ , how tender his heart was. Had forgotten the look in his eyes when he'd admitted to still having nightmares about Alexis from the time he couldn't find her in the mall at White Plains, forgotten, too, his expression in the coffee shop after Raglan had been killed when he'd seen the blood on her shirt. And she hadn't allowed herself to dwell on the terror and desperation in his eyes as he pleaded with her to stay with him.

"It's been a lot better lately," he added, reassuringly, his voice infused with more confidence (feigned, she was sure).

Better since they'd started talking again. But it didn't change the fact that he'd had another nightmare, one that was bad enough, scared him enough that he'd needed to call her first thing this morning, that she'd still been able to hear the upset in his voice.

Her throat felt tight with emotion and she honestly wasn't sure she could speak, even if she could think of what to say.

There was another pause and he was, predictably, the one to break it.

"Really, Beckett, it's not a big deal."

"What are your nightmares about?" she persisted. She wanted to know of his fears, his troubles, wanted to make it better, somehow.

"Oh, you know, everything that happened." He paused and then went on, reluctantly, "The hangar and Montgomery… what happened after…" he hedged.

He didn't want to admit it, didn't want to talk about his nightmares. Of course he didn't. He wasn't much better than she was at admitting to vulnerabilities and even beyond that, what kind of grown adult wanted to admit to having nightmares so bad that they left you shaking and panicked even after waking up, nightmares that left you so frantic with terror that it was hard to remember what was real and what wasn't?

Her heart hurt. She didn't want him to feel as if his nightmares made him any less strong in her eyes.

"You can tell me, Castle. I have nightmares too," she blurted out.

Her heart was suddenly beating too fast. She was vaguely aware of hearing a soft gasp but she went on, needed him to know he wasn't alone. "About the cemetery, the funeral." Evelyn's devastated face. "Standing up at the podium and then you knocking me down, the pain… I couldn't breathe…" Her breath was coming fast and shallow, as if to echo her own words, relive the memory. "I couldn't breathe and it burned and I remember thinking…" Thinking if she had to die, having his face be the last thing she saw, his voice the last one she heard, wasn't so bad...

His sharp intake of breath cut her off and she belatedly realized what she'd said, what she'd revealed.

Shit. No. No, that wasn't how she'd wanted this to go. Shit.

No no no. She wasn't ready for this. Too late now. Damn!

She swallowed past the lump in her throat. She needed to explain, didn't have time to panic. Not now. "Castle, I…"

"You remember," he interrupted her.

She flinched at the sound of his voice, how flat he sounded. So not like him.

She felt tears pricking at the back of her eyes and honestly didn't know why. "I… yes," she choked out, barely above a whisper.

There was a silence in which she tried—and failed—to think of something to say, how to explain, how to fix this.

"You never forgot, did you." It wasn't really a question. And his voice was still flat, controlled, emotionless in a way that made him sound like a different person. This wasn't the Castle she knew, not _her_ Castle…

She choked but couldn't force enough air into her lungs, couldn't find her voice to make the damning confession.

"Did you!" he repeated and now, some emotion broke through his control. And that made it worse. Because the emotion was anger.

And somehow that freed the words, terrified her into finding her voice again, at least sort of. "No," she choked out the word, her hand flying up to her chest, the bandage over her damaged heart, that she thought might be breaking all over again. "Castle, I—I'm sorry... I just…" Wasn't ready, was a coward…

"Never mind, Beckett," his voice cut across her faltering words.

What? No, how could he—what was he—she didn't—

"Castle, I… I can explain." It's not what it looks like? The clichéd words had some corner of her mind wanting to laugh hysterically. She was losing it, coming unhinged. After all these weeks of feeling as if she were clinging to sanity by her fingertips, this would be what tipped her over the edge.

It _was_ what it looked like. She'd lied to him. Lied to his face about the sweetest, most precious words she'd ever heard and then she'd left him alone for weeks.

And she'd been putting off her confession for days now when she should have told him she remembered when they'd first started talking again. But she hadn't. Hadn't said anything. First a lie and then a secret—but secrets and lies were like time bombs and now hers had exploded. Leaving their newly-restored relationship in the wreckage.

"Forget about it, Beckett. Some things are better left forgotten, right?"

What? She gaped.

No. No, she couldn't forget. They couldn't forget.

"Castle," she gasped again.

"I need to go," he talked right over her as if he hadn't even heard. "Alexis is awake. You don't have to explain. I need to go," he said again. "Goodbye, Beckett."

And before she'd managed to so much as catch her breath, she heard the tone that indicated he'd ended the phone call. All but hanging up on her.

No. Oh god, Castle. No no no. This was wrong. This wasn't like Castle. She needed to talk to him, needed to explain.

She pressed the button to call him again, trying to control her breathing, trying to blink back the stupid tears that welled up in her eyes.

The phone rang once and then— _Hi, you've reached Rick Castle…_

She flinched. A slap in the face might have surprised her less. And Castle would never hit her, never ever raise his hand to a woman. But he had rejected her call. For the first time ever. He had rejected her call.

"Castle, I… please, you have to let me explain," she managed to choke out. "I'm sorry but I can explain. I… call me..." She faltered and then, after a long minute, ended the voice message with a shaking finger.

She gasped for breath, tried to make her lungs function properly. She needed—she needed to talk to him, to explain…

She managed to send him a text message with fingers that weren't quite steady. _Please, Castle, let me explain. Call me so we can talk._

And then after a long minute in which there was no response. _I'm so sorry, Castle._

She waited but there was still nothing. And she sent him one last message, at least for now. _Please let me explain._

He had to let her explain. This couldn't be how she… lost him. She couldn't lose him. Not now, not like this, not ever.

The thought had her making a sound that was half a gasp, half a whimper, tears starting to her eyes again.

She had hurt him. She'd been trying to comfort him and instead, she'd hurt him. Why couldn't she seem to stop hurting him?

It seemed to be what she did, taint everyone she knew with her life of darkness and death, with her issues and her damaged psyche. It was safer, better, if she kept her distance from people, she'd thought that for years, but then he had come along and insinuated himself into her work and her life and her heart. He had opened her up to wanting more, wanting him. He deserved better, he deserved so much better than her, but she couldn't let him go, was too selfish to let him go.

She needed to fix this. Somehow, she needed to fix this, heal the wound she'd inflicted.

* * *

 _She had lied._

The words, the stark, bitter truth, bombarded him, repeating over and over in Castle's head like some poisonous mantra.

She had lied. All this time. She had known how he felt, known that he loved her for two months now, and she'd lied about it. Told him she didn't remember a thing. And even after they'd started talking again, she'd kept on lying, lying by her silence, every day.

She'd left him alone, without a word, for almost six weeks and she'd known all that time that he loved her.

Castle flinched.

And they'd been talking on the phone every single damned day for more than a week—12 days—and she hadn't told him, hadn't acknowledged his feelings by so much as a word. All she'd said had been of friendship, partnership—so far but no more.

He didn't—even now, in his anger and his agony—he didn't think Kate—no, Beckett—he inwardly flinched away from the relative intimacy of even thinking of her by her first name—would be deliberately cruel but what he did know of her was that she had a tendency to run, evade, when anything or anyone got too close, made her vulnerable. She was the bravest person he'd ever met when it came to physical danger but emotionally—she wasn't brave. Hid away from things that made her uncomfortable, difficult, emotional conversations.

Like telling him outright that she didn't love him.

She wouldn't have wanted to hurt him. They were, as she'd said, friends. Good friends. He believed that, after these last days of talking to her every day. Her apologizing for not calling, talking to him, trying to comfort him from the loneliness after Alexis eventually left for Stanford—all because they were friends. And he could understand that after losing Royce, losing her friend and mentor in Montgomery, being separated from the job she loved that provided the structure of her life, she would have wanted support, some normalcy—his friendship. Hence the way she'd been calling him. Because they were friends. And Beckett's friendship was precious.

It was just his tragedy that her friendship wasn't enough for him. Not now, probably would never be enough. He didn't think he could stand being only her friend, not when he was in love with her, completely, irrevocably. He wanted her love, the real, true, passionate love he was sure Beckett was capable of, with the depths of her heart, her commitment.

He'd wanted to be her one and done. Just as he'd been so sure that she was his one and done (because he was, when it came down to it, just as much of a one-and-done sort of person as she was, but he'd learned from his two catastrophic mistakes that a marriage needed two to work and his own commitment wasn't enough.)

But now he knew. He was her friend, her partner—but he was not her love.

Her initial lie, her continued silence, would have been—in her mind—the kinder thing. Beckett's usual M.O. of avoidance, her way of letting him down gently. Silence and time and distance for his feelings to fade so she wouldn't have to confront them.

He flinched again and shut his eyes against the unwilling prick of tears. He didn't want to cry over this, damn it. He'd lived long enough, knew enough of the world, to know that sometimes (many times) people fell in love with those who didn't return the same strength of feelings. Loving someone didn't create an obligation to return the sentiment.

But god, he felt as if something had died—his hope, maybe his heart. He had thought he'd been hurt and broken-hearted before, earlier this summer. But he'd still, even then, held onto his hope, faint and feeble as it had been. Now—now he knew better. (He'd been _such an idiot_. Such a cock-eyed optimistic idiot.)

How was he supposed to go on now? How was he supposed to live with his dearest hopes crushed?

Oh, he knew he would live, at least literally. Men have died and the worms have eaten them, but not for love, as Shakespeare had put it.

And he still had Alexis. His mother. His two mainstays of unconditional love.

He had to go on for Alexis's sake, if nothing else. And for Alexis, he knew he could, he would. He would do anything for Alexis. And as always, the thought of his daughter brought a fleeting flare of warmth to his heart.

He had promised Alexis to spend the day with her, just like the old days. He couldn't decide if he was glad of it—for the comfort of her presence, her steadfast love—or sorry for it—for the torment of having to pretend, put a good face on things and not taint Alexis's day with his own broken heart.

At least she wasn't awake yet. With the way she'd been taking advantage of her vacation to sleep in lately, he knew he had a little more time, maybe even an hour or so, before she'd come downstairs and he'd need to force himself to smile and pretend his heart hadn't been utterly crushed.

But until then…

He felt tears threatening again and this time, he didn't try to fight them, just let them spill over as he mourned the death of everything he'd hoped for with Beckett.

* * *

"Katie, what's wrong?"

Her dad's question bought Kate out of her dispirited reverie. It was after lunch and she and her dad were listening to the radio broadcast of the Mets weekend matinee game—or at least, her dad was listening but she herself hadn't actually heard more than 1 word out of every 20.

"You've seemed sad all day and you've just sighed for the fifth time in about 15 minutes. What is it?"

She'd lied to Castle and he'd found out about it and now he didn't want to talk to her, maybe never would talk to her again. She felt tears pricking at the back of her eyes and blinked them back. She couldn't cry over this in front of her dad. And she couldn't tell her dad what she'd done either.

"Well, if you don't want to talk to me, then maybe you could call Rick. Talking to him always makes you smile."

She flinched at the mention of Castle's name and knew she hadn't managed to hide it as her dad's gaze sharpened. "Castle and I… had a fight," she temporized. She supposed it wasn't entirely untrue; they weren't exactly on good terms right now.

"Oh. I'm sorry to hear that, Katie, but I'm sure if you apologize, you'll be able to make up."

"He doesn't want to talk to me," she managed to choke out, the words almost physically painful to say.

"Give him some more time and let his temper cool down and I think he'll be willing to listen. You two have argued before and gotten past it."

Not like this, they hadn't. And their disastrous fight at her apartment that night had left them both reeling with hurt for days and weeks afterward.

"I think it'll be okay, Katie," her dad added gently, seeing that she wasn't responding. "Your mom and I had some terrible fights in our time."

"Really?" Surprise tugged Kate out of her depression, distracted her. And her dad was impliedly comparing her relationship with Castle to his with her mom. When had that happened? (And why wasn't she freaking out about it?) "I don't remember hearing you and Mom fight." Her parents had had discussions and debates, some more intense than others, and she remembered one short spate of irritated back-and-forth that amounted to bickering on a road trip they'd taken once but it had ended with her mom bursting out laughing at something her dad had said—Kate didn't remember what her dad had said but she remembered her pre-teen self thinking that adults' senses of humor were utterly incomprehensible. But she didn't remember ever hearing her parents have anything that might be termed a terrible fight.

"Of course we tried never to fight when you were around, Katie." Her dad shot her a rather amused glance. "But surely you didn't imagine that your mom and I got through more than 20 years of marriage without exchanging a cross word?"

Put like that… But it was true, she had rather imagined that, in her youthfully limited view of her parents. Odd, to be learning new things about her parents even now. So many years after her mom had died, it seemed like she still had more to learn about her mom. It was so poignant and precious, made her feel as if something of her mom still lingered. "I guess I never really thought about it."

"Yes, well, I'm glad your mom and I succeeded in presenting such a harmonious front to you but now you know. We did have fights. We were both strong-willed, both had tempers. I'm not sure it's humanly possible to be in a relationship without arguing sometimes, at least not a healthy one where both sides are free to speak their minds."

"I suppose," Kate agreed lamely. Not that she didn't think her dad was right but at this point, her poor dad was still laboring under the delusion that she and Castle had merely had a difference of opinion. (Of course, her dad would never imagine that she would have lied to Castle about something so important as remembering her shooting and Castle's declaration of love.)

"If you want my advice, Katie, give Rick a little more time and then apologize. Swallow your pride if you must but we all say stupid things in the heat of anger so tell him you're sorry and I think he'll forgive you. Your friendship is strong enough to weather a fight or two." There was a faint intonation when her dad said the word, friendship, that clearly indicated he didn't think the word was strictly appropriate. "After all," her dad finished quietly, his expression becoming melancholy and wistful in the way it always became when he was missing her mom, "'Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.'"*

She choked a little at the word, love. Castle _had_ loved her but she was terrified that he no longer did, that he couldn't anymore, because she'd lied to him for so many weeks.

Her dad shot her an assessing look but didn't say anything more on the subject of Castle or his feelings for her, apparently deciding discretion was the better part of valor, or something. Or maybe he suspected that if he did say anything further about Castle's suspected love for her, she would dissolve into tears, as she rather felt like doing.

But she did think about her dad's words. She couldn't seem to think of anything but Castle and her dad's confidence in their relationship was perhaps the most comforting thing she had as the day wore on without a word from Castle.

She left him another voicemail and sent him two more text messages over the course of the day and even resorted to sending him a brief email also apologizing and asking him to call her. (She wasn't sure why since if he weren't responding to voicemail or text, there was no earthly reason to think that an email would do the trick but she was desperate.)

If she could only talk to him, explain to him, it would be okay, she thought (she hoped). Castle—the man she knew and loved—was, at his core, a compassionate, understanding man. Witness the way he had forgiven her for not calling for so many weeks. He was kind, he was forgiving, and he… cared about her. She inwardly winced. She didn't know, couldn't be sure anymore if he still loved her. But surely, surely, he would at least let her explain…

The day seemed to drag on like a year and she wondered, yet again, how she had ever managed to go almost six weeks without talking to him because now, especially after the last week and half, just one day without talking to Castle seemed like a desolate wasteland. (God, she was such a mess. To think like that now, when she might have lost him.)

No no no, she couldn't have lost him. Couldn't lose him. Not now, not like this. Oh please, not like this. Not when it was all her own fault, not when she'd never had a chance to ever be with him, to really know what it was like to be loved by him or to love him back.

She could—thought she could—bear it if they ended up breaking up one day, if a real relationship between them didn't survive the slings and arrows of everyday life. No, that wasn't true. If a real relationship between them didn't work, she would just be… done. That would be it for her. It was possibly the worst time to realize it but she supposed it was only to be expected giving the timing issues that plagued her and Castle's relationship, even when Espo and Ryan weren't around.

Castle was her one and done. She was somehow sure of that.

She didn't know quite when she'd become so certain of that but there it was, the belief fully formed and embedded in her heart. Maybe it had happened over the last year of his smiles and his teasing and his caring. Maybe it had happened when he'd stayed with her in a freezer and facing a dirty bomb. Maybe it had been the way he'd helped her, quietly, in the days after Captain Montgomery's death and stood beside her at the funeral. Maybe it had been in the last days, talking to him every day in a way she couldn't remember ever wanting to talk to anyone else, in the way just talking to him made her happy. She didn't know and maybe it didn't matter. All that mattered was this certainty that Castle really was her one and done. (Well, now she knew why she hadn't freaked out over her dad's implicitly comparing her relationship to Castle with his to her mom.)

And if they didn't work, if she couldn't fix this, it wouldn't matter that she and Castle had never really been together, she suddenly knew she would be done. Done with ever really hoping or believing that she would have the sort of love her parents had had, the sort of marriage Captain Montgomery and Evelyn had had. She would never love anyone the way she loved Castle. She wasn't the sort of person who loved easily and if she lost Castle, then that would be it for her.

Oh god. Maybe at another time, that would be a comforting thought, to know she'd found her one and done, but right now, it was only terrifying.

She tried calling Castle again and this time, wasn't surprised, although she felt another stab of hurt, when he didn't answer. She didn't know if it was comforting that this time, his phone had rung out completely before going to voicemail so he hadn't outright rejected her call. (God, how had she become this pathetic, trying to ascribe meaning to and derive comfort from such a flimsy thing?)

She sent him yet another text message but there was, again, still, no response.

And for the first time that summer, as she went to bed, she made sure her phone was fully charged and left it on instead of turning it off as she had been. If he texted or called, she didn't want to miss it, no matter the hour.

She drifted into sleep, her phone clutched in her hand, waiting for the call that didn't come.

 _~To be continued…~_

*1 Corinthians 13:7


	9. Chapter 9

Author's Note: Starting to fix things…

 **The Space Between Us**

 _Chapter 9_

Castle jolted into groggy awareness at the sound of his ringing phone and he blindly flung out an arm to grab his phone on the night stand. "Cassl—" he mumbled, slurring his name.

He didn't hear anything.

Surprise and confusion had more consciousness returning. "Hello?"

Still nothing.

Annoyance, not to say anger, tugged him back into full awareness. He had not had a good day to say the least (it was so stupidly unfair that _she_ was the one who had lied to him and even so, _he_ was the one who felt guilty about ignoring her phone calls and text messages and he couldn't even take one damn day to be angry at her without it being almost physically painful to not talk to her). And if this was some idiot's idea of a prank call, he was going to verbally flay the skin off their backs in a way that would have made Esposito cower in fear. "Hello," he said more sharply. "Is someone there?"

Now, finally, maybe because he was fully awake now, he heard a faint sound, like breathing. So someone was there.

What kind of ass—he pulled his phone away from his ear and then had to tighten his fist to keep from dropping his phone in shock—and so many other emotions he honestly couldn't identify them all—at the caller ID. Beckett. It was Beckett. And she was calling him at 3:24 in the morning.

He couldn't help it; he sat bolt upright in bed. "Beckett? Beckett, is that you? Answer me, will you?"

There was still nothing but now, with his ears straining, he heard… His heart was suddenly in his throat. It was breathing, or more accurately, panting. Panicked, labored, too rapid and too shallow for things to be remotely all right.

"Kate!" His voice had risen along with his fear, any anger and betrayal he'd felt entirely drowned out in the tidal wave of his worry over her. Nothing—not her lie, not her days and weeks of silence, not his hurt—mattered at that moment because he just knew that something had to be very wrong.

Beckett would not call him at this hour unless something was very wrong and she didn't sound like this.

"Beckett, talk to me, damn it!"

That sort of peremptory order would have had the normal Beckett biting his head off. This Beckett…

He could still hear her too-shallow breathing, faintly, and he suddenly wondered if she'd somehow dialed him by mistake. (Possibly the only likely explanation. But he didn't care how it had happened.)

And then he heard something that wasn't breathing, wasn't Beckett at all. The distant sound of a crack of thunder.

Oh. Oh wait. Oh god.

If he had heard the thunder as relatively clearly as he had from over the phone, then he could only imagine that for Beckett, in her dad's cabin (that was much more exposed to the elements than her apartment would have been in the middle of a building in the urban jungle that was Manhattan), the thunder must have been loud enough to practically shake the cabin.

There was a gasp that in anyone else would have been called a whimper.

Not for the first time, Castle damned the distance between them, the fact that he couldn't see her. It was maddening, just hearing her panicked breathing, and knowing something was very, very wrong and not able to see her state for himself, let alone be able to hold her the way he wanted to.

He raised his voice even as he deliberately made it gentler. "Beckett, it's going to be okay. You're going to be all right. Everything's going to be fine. Just listen to me, focus on my voice. I'm right here…" He didn't know exactly what was going on but he'd done some research on PTSD and he could imagine that Beckett was currently in the grips of a panic attack. He didn't know how much—or if—she could hear of him through the phone but guessed it was possibly as much as he had heard at first. Not that it mattered. He had to try, had to do _something_. If he could have, he'd have crawled into the phone line to get closer to her, teleported or Apparated to her side but barring some miraculous and timely discovery of the ability to teleport, this was all he could do. And so, this was what he would do.

"Okay, Beckett, just focus on my voice, that's it. I'm right with you and I'm not going anywhere. You're going to be all right. You can do this. You're safe. I'm not going anywhere so just listen to me…"

And on and on he went, with no very clear idea of what he was saying but just repeating his litany of any reassuring words that came to mind.

* * *

Kate was in hell.

She'd jolted awake with the first rumble of thunder, not so badly, but then the moment she'd opened her eyes, there had been a flash of lightning, so bright it had momentarily lit up the entire world in its eerie glare, drawing a sharp gasp from her, and she was flinching and cowering in her bed, scrabbling to tighten her grip on something in her hand. The only solid thing in her world right now. She clutched it, trying to ground herself.

Another sharp crack of thunder.

She couldn't breathe. Her lungs had forgotten how to work.

 _She felt the hot burn of the bullet and she couldn't breathe, couldn't move, couldn't find enough breath to scream and she was dying and oh god, why couldn't she breathe and she was alone this time and she was bleeding—so much blood, she could feel it seeping out—and she was cold even as she felt the burn in her chest—screaming—there was no air—_

She still heard screaming but through it all, as if from far away, she slowly became aware of something else, another sound. A voice. Sounding oddly far away but audible.

Castle.

Of course, Castle. At the moment, it only seemed fitting. He'd been there before, stood by her side. He was the one who had knocked her down. He would always try to save her, wouldn't leave her…

Castle. His voice. He'd said words she wanted to hear before...

"...my voice, that's it. Just listen to me. You're safe. You're going to be all right. Just focus on my voice, Beckett..."

Castle. His voice. Even in the fog of mindless terror and panic, his voice somehow set off sparks in her auditory synapses, and she reacted. Even disoriented and panicked, she responded to his voice. Somehow, it seemed as if his voice, the knowledge that he was there, tethered her to life, tugged her back. She knew nothing else but she remembered his voice, trusted him, trusted his voice, his presence, to stay with her. She knew he was there, he wouldn't leave her, she wasn't alone, she would be okay. She had no idea how long it took but slowly, gradually, reality returned to her, helped by the retreat of the thunder and lightning, leaving only the steady drum of rain behind. And through it all, she listened for his voice and felt unreasoning little quivers of emotion go through her. Affection and trust and an odd feeling of safety, even in all the panic.

With the return of reality came the remembrance of where she was—at her dad's cabin. And Castle wasn't there. He was… on the other end of the phone line.

Oh. Her phone. That was what she was holding so tightly.

She didn't know how she'd managed to call him or if she'd somehow clutched her phone in a way that pressed a button that somehow made it dial the last number she'd called or just the first contact on her speed dial list but she supposed it didn't matter. All that mattered was that somehow, almost miraculously, when she'd needed someone—him—he'd been there.

He was always there, had her back.

She slowly blinked her eyes open that had been screwed shut against the lightning and tried, almost experimentally, to slow and steady her breathing. Inhale and exhale.

After a minute, she managed it and then she managed to force herself to loosen the death grip she had on her phone—her hand was beginning to cramp—pressing the button to shift to speaker phone. And then almost startled at how much louder his voice abruptly sounded.

He sounded almost as frantic as she had felt.

"...can do this, Beckett. Just breathe, in and out, and focus on me. You're going to be all right…"

"Castle," she managed to say, her voice not quite steady.

He sucked in a sharp breath, his calming litany immediately ceasing. "Beckett," he gasped. There was a pause and then he just repeated again, "Beckett," as if he needed the reassurance she was actually there.

"Hi," she found herself saying, inanely.

He gave a small gasp, almost a choke. "Beckett. How… how are you?"

"I'm… better now." Not even she could say she was fine at that moment, the lie wouldn't make it past her throat. Her grip on reality still felt a little too shaky, as if she'd patched up her composure with fraying threads and wasn't sure how much longer they would hold. But she was better. She knew where she was, was no longer in the cemetery dying, didn't hear imaginary screams.

"I… thank you… you helped," she managed to say as, belatedly, she remembered what had happened just that day—or yesterday, she supposed. She wasn't sure what time it was but it had to be after midnight. "Castle, I'm so sorry." She pushed the words out through her tight throat, the first, most important thing she needed to tell him. Now while she could.

He let out his breath in a sigh. "It's okay, Beckett—or at least, it's okay for now. We—we can talk about it later. I promise."

She relaxed just a little. Castle kept his promises.

"Okay," she breathed. "And I'm sorry to bother you at this hour."

"Don't worry about it, Beckett. I'm just… glad I could help a little. Will you… be okay now?"

She hesitated. No, she didn't want to stop talking to him, didn't want him to leave. Didn't want to be left alone with only the sound of the rain and her own breathing. And if the thunder and lightning came back… "Can you… Will you… keep talking to me?"

"Okay… About what?"

"Anything. Just… keep talking…"

She carefully placed her phone down on the bed right beside her pillow so she could hear his voice clearly, and let her eyes close and she could almost pretend that he was right there beside her.

"Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary…"

Of course it would be Poe he fell back on when at a loss. For the first time in what felt like days, she felt a tiny flicker of something approaching amusement. Or just fondness at knowing him so well. But whatever it was, it warmed her in some inexplicable way and she felt the knots of tension in her body start to loosen a little.

Let the familiar tones of his voice, soft and gentle as he recited the rhythmic lines, settle over her like a blanket, seep into her tattered nerves, until she felt warm and cosseted and safe.

* * *

 _Keep talking._

For a moment, Castle forgot how to breathe. Beckett was asking for something, asking for help. If it didn't reveal just how badly she'd been shaken by her panic attack, he would feel… glad.

Ironically, the moment she wanted him to talk, he, the one who always had words and talked too much, found himself at a loss. Normally, he would have started to tell a story, the way he had when Alexis had woken up from a nightmare when she was little. But now, his brain was too foggy with exhaustion and lingering worry and emotion and for once in his life, he couldn't think of a story to tell.

So instead, he fell back on Poe, the words he knew by heart so well he barely needed to think about it. And he thought, a little belatedly, that the steady rhythm of poetry might serve the purpose of calming Beckett as well as a lullaby would a baby. It was so terrifying and disorienting to feel such concern over someone as strong as Beckett, to imagine someone normally so self-sufficient reduced to this. It felt as if the earth itself should have shook, tilting to a dizzying angle beneath his feet. The entire continent of Europe crashing into the east coast would have been only marginally more disorienting to his sense of normality. And possibly less painful to him.

He could hear the faint sound of Beckett's breathing steadier now, not as labored, although there were still some hitches here and there.

He went on, running through his repertory of Poe. He wandered down into the kitchen to get himself a glass of water and paused in his library to grab an anthology of American poetry before returning to his bedroom and settling on the bed. And all the while, he talked or recited, he supposed.

He ran out of Poe and switched to reading aloud, Whitman, Longfellow, Emily Dickinson, Maya Angelou, Frost, Whittier. He read for well over an hour until he felt his throat getting scratchy, his voice rougher.

"Happy if their track be found/ Never on forbidden ground;/ Happy if they sink not in/ Quick and treacherous sands of sin./ Ah, that thou couldst know thy joy/ Ere it passes, barefoot boy!"* He finally stopped and waited, straining his ears until he thought he heard the faint sound of even breathing. "Beckett?" he asked softly, carefully.

There was no response and he waited for another minute before venturing, again, "Beckett?"

There was still no answer and, finally satisfied that she must have drifted off, he whispered, "Good night, Beckett," before ending the phone call.

It was a little after 5 in the morning and Castle didn't bother trying to go back to sleep. He felt oddly wired and alert, in spite of his exhaustion. Beckett, rather like Macbeth, had murdered sleep for tonight. No, now that the immediate worry over Beckett was allayed, he found, as tired as he was, his intellect starting to kick in, filling in his understanding of what had just happened, what he'd just found out.

Beckett suffered from panic attacks and, most likely, flashbacks too. She had admitted she remembered her shooting—he ignored the lingering sting of hurt at that thought—but now, having seen—or well, not seen but heard enough to guess—the severity of her panic attacks, he thought he understood. He'd had his fair share of nightmares over her shooting, nightmares that had left him panicked and trembling and scared to go back to sleep (he'd had one just the day before), and there were certainly times when the sunlight flashed in the wrong way and made him flinch (or worse). But he was usually able to fight it back. He suspected—no, he knew that he was the lucky one, the one who'd gotten off lightly.

He hadn't imagined that Beckett would be suffering like this from the trauma of her shooting—but then he'd thought she didn't remember it at all. He'd trusted her. He winced—but it wasn't important right now. What was important was that now he knew the truth. She remembered and she was traumatized. And the picture that was forming now with the new knowledge that she had panic attacks, flashbacks, was rearranging everything he'd thought he'd known about why she'd lied about remembering.

He hated that she hadn't told him anything at all about how she was suffering, hated that in all these times she'd only mentioned in passing her own frustration with her physical weakness. Why why _why_ hadn't she told him?! She could have told him, said something, anything. He would have understood, he would have waited, he would have—could have—helped her. But even as he thought it, mentally railing at her in his frustration edging into anger, he knew why. Because this was Beckett and she hated admitting vulnerability, weakness. It was a minor miracle in itself that she had revealed as much as she had about her physical weakness but he supposed now that it must be because the physical was the easier one to deal with, the one she must have known he could have guessed at anyway. (Which, of course, was true. He had done research into recovery from gunshot wounds. He'd wanted, needed to know, for himself, what Beckett was facing.) Beckett was all about control and he knew she must hate every bit of her recovery, to not have control of her own body and its recovery and worse, to feel as if she couldn't control her own mind.

And his declaration of love—which even he had to admit was possibly the worst-timed declaration of love in the history of the world—would have been tied up with her shooting. And he knew enough about the nature of flashbacks and PTSD to guess that if she suffered from them, it would have been hard—if not impossible—for her to deal with the one without confronting the other—or being sucked into the morass of emotions stemming from her shooting as a whole. If she'd had flashbacks when she thought about what he'd said—he flinched at the thought—no wonder she hadn't mentioned it.

Some things are best not remembered. Her words in the hospital returned to him again and for the first time since learning about her lie, he understood why she'd said that. Or at least he thought he did.

He wasn't ready to hope again that she really did love him—he'd been too deeply hurt to rebound so quickly, still felt he needed to try to protect his poor battered heart to the extent that he could—but at least, he was no longer sure that she _didn't_ love him. And that was something.

And by now, he was just too invested in this, in his relationship with Beckett—too deeply in love—to walk away easily. He could about as easily cut off one of his hands as he could just walk away from Beckett. If he absolutely had to—if he found out that Beckett really didn't love him—he could but it would only be from a sort of _127 Hours_ -like desperation and he knew he would feel pain in the phantom limb of her absence from his life forever.

He really needed to talk to Beckett.

* * *

Kate drifted awake slowly, feeling disoriented and with a vague sense that something was different but not at first remembering what. And then the events of the night returned to her in a rush. The thunderstorm, the flashback (the worst she'd had in awhile). Castle. Her memories of the actual flashback and its immediate aftermath were a little fuzzy (probably mercifully so) but what she clearly remembered was the comfort of hearing Castle's voice. It had been… like coffee, with the way it had warmed her clear through. Or more accurately perhaps, it had been like her mom's hot chocolate, what her mom had made to comfort her when she was upset and that had always managed to make her feel warm and loved.

And although she knew she would never have consciously chosen to call him in the middle of the night for a flashback—she hadn't wanted him to know just how broken she was—she found that she couldn't bring herself to regret that it had happened either. She shuddered to think how much worse the whole thing would have been if it hadn't been for Castle's presence, his help, even at the other end of a phone line.

Now he knew how broken she was, how damaged.

But he was talking to her again, had promised they would talk more later.

And for now, that was enough.

Her dad was in the kitchen when she emerged from her room a little later and she was vaguely aware of him giving her an oddly searching look.

"Good morning, Katie. How are you feeling?"

After this summer, it wasn't that unusual of a question for him first thing in the morning. He did know that she was usually more sore in the morning, her muscles having stiffened up over night.

"I'm fine," she answered automatically and not untruthfully, seating herself at the table where her dad had already placed a fresh cup of coffee for her.

"Mm," her dad murmured. "Did you sleep okay, even with the storm?"

His tone was careful and this time, she noticed the way he was studying her.

"Dad?" She met her dad's concerned gaze. Oh. He knew. Knew she'd woken up from the storm and at the very least, suspected she'd had a nightmare or flashback. "How did you know?" she blurted out inanely.

Her dad gave her a rather wry look. "I am your father, Katie, I know you pretty well." He sobered. "And last night, I woke up during the storm and got up to check on you, make sure you were okay."

"Oh. I didn't know."

"I didn't knock because I wasn't sure and didn't want to disturb you if you were sleeping but then I heard that you were talking to Rick."

Ridiculously, she felt heat scorch her cheeks. "You heard that?"

"Just a little, enough to know it was him, and then I left. I figured if you were talking to Rick, you were in good hands."

Wow, her dad really did trust Castle.

She dropped her gaze to her mug of coffee. "He... helped," she managed to admit quietly.

"I'm glad you let him help you, Katie. From all I've heard, I imagine he's wanted to be there for you and help you for a long time now."

The significance of her dad's tone and look had her flushing and trying to hide behind her cup of coffee. "He likes helping people," she faltered lamely. Which was true enough. She remembered the way he'd tried to help Scarlett Price, the call-girl, last year, the way he'd tried to prove his old friend, Damian Westlake, innocent of the murders of his wife and his father. She suddenly thought of the way he'd first looked into her mom's case a couple years ago, what she'd been so mad at him for. She'd accused him of doing it out of selfishness, his own incorrigible curiosity without thinking of her opinion at all, and there had been some truth to that; he was curious and persistent and he could be impulsive and thoughtless—but it occurred to her now, belatedly, that he would have also done it out of kindness, to try to use the connections he had with Clark Murray to get her answers and closure on the case that haunted her. He had been trying to help her. And ever since then, with all that had happened in her mom's case, he had done everything he could to provide support, have her back.

Her dad gave her a look. "Now, Katie, don't give me that. Rick might be kind but no one would have stuck around for as long as he has, faced the sort of danger I know you two have faced, because of some general sense of kindness."

"I know," she tried to say but her voice seemed to have gotten strangled somewhere in her throat and the words came out barely above a breath. She swallowed the lump in her throat and tried again. "I—it scares me, Dad," she admitted. Loving Castle so much, being loved by Castle so much (what would she do if she wasn't good enough for him, if she ended up hurting him because of her issues, her pathetic inability to talk about her emotions?) The thought of something happening to Castle. God, she was such a mess. She didn't even know exactly what scared her so much when it came to Castle; she just knew she was still scared, terrified even.

Her dad sighed and reached out to squeeze her hand gently. "Katie-bug, I wish I could tell you that nothing bad will ever happen and there's nothing to worry about but we both know that's not true. What I can tell you is that, as scary as it can be, love is worth it." He looked away, his gaze going to a framed picture on the wall of the three of them, their family, taken years ago during one of their visits to this cabin, with a very young Katie, her hair in pigtails and with a gap-toothed grin, sandwiched between her parents, looking heartbreakingly youthful and happy. Her dad sucked in a shaky breath and turned back to her, managing a watery smile in spite of the tears glistening in his eyes. "Love is worth it, Katie," he repeated quietly. "And you deserve to be happy and I think… from all you've told me over the years, from all I've seen… Rick makes you happy."

 _I know you hide there, same way you hide in these nowhere relationships with men you don't love. You could be happy, Kate. You deserve to be happy. But you're afraid._

She choked a little. "He does." Castle frustrated her, he irritated her, he challenged her, he amused her—but above all, perhaps more than anything else, he made her happy. Even without being together, he made her happy. He'd made her look foward to going into work every day just so she could see his smile, drink his coffee, hear his voice. (Not that she'd really been able to admit this to herself before now.)

Her dad's smile deepened a little but all he said after a long moment was, "What do you want for breakfast, Katie?"

Breakfast? For a moment she blinked at him as if he'd just spoken in a foreign language. After the night she'd had, how emotionally fragile she still felt, she couldn't imagine eating anything and it wasn't as if she had much of an appetite these days anyway. "Oh, um, just some toast is fine," she finally answered. "I can make it."

Her dad waved her off as he stood up. "No, Katie, don't be silly. I'm here to take care of you, remember? And it's not like making toast is complicated."

"No, but…" Her automatic, instinctive demurral was interrupted by the sound of her phone ringing from the open door of her room.

Oh. Castle. It had to be.

Kate started up, not sure (for once) if the sudden fluttering of her heart was due to happiness or nervousness (possibly both). "That—that's probably Castle," she explained quickly. "I'll eat after, if that's okay, Dad."

"Go on, Katie, I'm sure you'd rather talk to Rick than to your old dad."

She paused halfway to her room at this. "Dad!"

Her dad gave her a half-smile and flapped a hand at her in a shoo-ing motion. "Never mind, Katie, go talk to your Castle."

Her Castle. Was he hers? Still?

She shot her dad a last, half-apologetic look and then hurried into her room.

"Castle?"

"Beckett."

Having established that they each knew the other's name, they both abruptly seemed to run out of things to say. Kate felt her heart stutter in her chest and after a moment, moved to quietly close her door. Whatever she and Castle said, it was between her and Castle; her dad didn't need to be listening to it. (Not that he would deliberately eavesdrop but the cabin wasn't that big.)

She knew they needed to talk. She wanted to talk, explain herself, but now that they were on the phone, now that the moment was here, her mind had gone blank, not sure where to start or what she was going to say. But god, she hated this awkward silence between them too. "I… uh… guess we need to talk," she finally ventured, inanely. And then could have kicked herself for sounding like an idiot.

"We do," he confirmed briefly but then there was another long pause.

And this time he was the one to break it. "Beckett, how—how are you doing?"

"I'm… better… I slept. I… thanks, Castle," she managed, less than fluently.

"Good. I'm glad. You're welcome," he answered rather jerkily, the brief staccato sentences unlike him.

God, what had she done to him, to them? To be so stilted, after all the time they'd spent talking lately, after all the time they'd known each other.

"I'm so sorry, Castle."

"You can stop apologizing, Beckett," he sighed, sounding weary.

"Did you sleep?" she blurted out, the words spilling from her lips before she'd even realized. "After?" After she'd fallen asleep, after he'd stopped reciting poetry to calm her.

"I… um… no."

"Oh," was all she said, quietly. She'd ruined his night, woken him up in the middle of the night and prevented him from returning to sleep. Why oh why couldn't she stop doing this sort of thing to him, disturbing him, hurting him? She couldn't seem to be good for him.

Another moment of silence hummed over the line and then he sighed. "Look, Beckett, you said you could explain. I'm here, I'm listening, so talk to me. Why didn't you tell me?"

She sank down onto her bed, her free hand automatically going up to cover the hole in her chest. Her breath was already coming too fast, too shallow. She knew she needed to tell him but oh god, this was _hard._ She didn't do this sort of thing easily, bare her innermost thoughts and emotions, and it wasn't as if her emotions, her reasons, were all that clear to begin with. It wasn't as if she'd made some conscious decision to lie to Castle that day in the hospital; her thoughts hadn't been clear to begin with from the painkillers, which had made her feel oddly… blurry… if that was the word. And the words had just slipped from her mouth and then it had been too late and in spite of herself, in spite of seeing the way the light in his eyes had been extinguished, she'd felt some relief. She'd only wanted to buy some time…

Now her time had run out. She needed to explain to him, somehow. She owed him the truth. (She owed him a lot more than that but for now, the truth was something to start with.)

"I…" She almost choked, swallowed hard ( _get a grip, Kate!_ ), and forced herself to go on, her voice not quite as steady as she would have liked, but she was talking. "When I woke up in the hospital after… afterwards, I—I was… scared, confused. I wasn't sure what had happened at first until my dad and the doctors told me and then… I started to remember, bits and pieces."

The memories had come back, blurred and fuzzy (at least at first). The funeral, giving the eulogy, Castle tackling her. She still wasn't clear even now if she'd actually heard the shot or if she were only imagining it, her mind filling in the familiar sound of a gunshot. She'd remembered the pain and Castle's face hovering above her, his hands, his voice. At first she hadn't been sure if she'd really heard or only imagined Castle telling her he loved her—words she'd both wanted and been terrified of hearing from him—but then the moment she'd seen him again, with that tentative, hopeful, eager, _loving_ expression, she'd known he'd really said it. More, she'd known that he'd meant it. And she'd panicked. (Not for the first time, it occurred to her to wonder what was wrong with her. The normal reaction to a declaration of love was not panic.)

She paused, trying to get her thoughts in some semblance of order. She could hear his breathing, not much steadier than hers, and her heart twisted a little. His memories from that day couldn't be any better than hers, were possibly worse. Would certainly be clearer than hers.

"And when I saw you again… I just… I wasn't ready. Because you were right, we never talked about… anything, about us, and Josh was there too and I needed to sort things out with him first and I just… I needed some time…"

She trailed off. She'd told him that already that day, hadn't she? It was true but it sounded… like an excuse.

There was a long minute of silence and the sound of her breathing, her heartbeat, were both way too loud in her own ears.

"I can understand that but Beckett, it's been two months. You broke up with Josh weeks ago and you still… All this time… and we've been talking every day..."

Right. She'd only finished half of her explanation, the easier half. She tried to focus on controlling her breathing, tried to slow it down, inhale, hold, and then exhale, tried to trick her mind (or something) that if she could control this basic bodily function, she could control her emotions too.

And she still even now didn't want to tell him the full extent of her flashbacks. Didn't want him to know just how broken she was, how there were days when she'd felt as if she were barely clinging to sanity… And how could she tell him that just thinking about what he'd said had only reminded her of dying? He'd told her he loved her for the first time when she was dying in his arms and she hadn't been able to separate the two in her screwed up head for weeks. She still wasn't sure she'd completely managed that.

"I… I just couldn't…" she finally managed to choke out. "I couldn't deal with it. I was… hurting and tired all the time and I… I had—I have nightmares." That much, she could admit, had already admitted. An orderly had dropped a tray or something just outside her room a few days after she'd sent Castle away and she'd been back in the cemetery dying and a nurse had found her clutching her chest trying to breathe and she still didn't know if she'd actually screamed aloud or if she'd only screamed in her mind. She hadn't screamed when it actually happened, hadn't been able to get enough breath to scream. "I just… I wanted to be better, put in the time and get better until I can… deal with it, sleep without nightmares." Something like a sob caught in her throat and oh crap, it seemed she was crying. She felt the wetness on her cheeks. She felt the phantom burn in her chest, the ache in her sternum from not being able to catch her breath properly.

"Beckett, it's okay. You don't have to… I get that, I do. I just… were you ever going to tell me?"

The blunt question made her suck in her breath a little. How could he ask—but why wouldn't he ask? Because they had been talking every day now and she hadn't told him. She hadn't given him enough. She'd thought—told herself she was just by talking to him—but really, it had been for herself, because she didn't want to go through this without him making her smile, brightening her day—and what had she really given him to go on? He deserved so much more. (He deserved more than her, better than her.)

"I—yes. I was going to tell you when… when I was ready. I just… wanted to be better first. I don't know if I can have the kind of relationship I want until I get better, until I can put… all this… behind me."

"I think… I understand."

 _Will you wait for me?_ Her throat closed up on the question. She wasn't sure if she could handle the answer. And how could she ask him to do that? It wasn't fair to him.

"Can you forgive me?" she faltered instead.

There was a long pause in which it seemed as if the entire world held its breath (she certainly did) and then he sighed, "It's not about forgiveness, Kate."

Kate. He was calling her Kate again. Her heart leaped and just like that, it seemed as if her lungs remembered how to function.

"I just… I think I need some time." He gave an unamused little bark of a laugh. "I guess needing time is contagious and now it's my turn." He paused and then added, tiredly, "I just need time to think, Beckett."

Time. He'd given her time and how could she do any less?

"But can we still… talk, over the phone?" she found herself asking before she'd realized she was going to. She didn't think she could go back to not talking to Castle. Not again, not anymore.

"Yeah, we can still talk," he agreed and oh, his tone, the note of warmth in it, made a little tendril of hope sprout in her chest. It wasn't the warmth she was used to hearing in his voice when he talked to her but it was still more than what she'd heard in his voice since the moment he'd found out about her lie. He wasn't angry at her. He still cared.

"Okay. Good." And then, "thank you, Castle."

"You don't need to thank me." He continued with an attempt at lightness, "In case you haven't noticed, I don't really like not talking to you."

She managed a wobbly smile. "I don't like not talking to you either." As the saying went, she'd been there, done that—and she never wanted to go through it again.

He let out a breath. "Okay, then. I guess, we'll talk later?"

"Yes, talk to you later. Tomorrow?"

"Until tomorrow, Beckett."

The familiar words, the reassurance, had her smiling as the call ended.

She hadn't broken them. And from now on, she promised, she would—she had to—stop hurting him. She could do better, could be better, for him, for his sake.

And the thought was a vow.

 _~To be continued…~_

* From "The Barefoot Boy" by John Greenleaf Whittier.

A/N 2: Thoughts?


	10. Chapter 10

Author's Note: With yet more talking…

 **The Space Between Us**

 _Chapter 10_

Castle was suffering from emotional whiplash. The way his emotions had veered all over the place over the course of the last 24 hours—god, had it really only been 24 hours?—had left him almost physically dizzy. He felt as if his emotions had been thrown into a blender or something and now were a formless, messy blob so he couldn't even identify what he was feeling any more. An emotion smoothie where the individual ingredients were unidentifiable. And good god, he really couldn't believe he was thinking in terms of such tortured metaphors. He really must be exhausted and sleep-deprived. At this point, he'd be incoherent in a matter of minutes.

He sighed, poured himself a cup of coffee (another one; this would be his fourth in the last three hours), and then retreated into his office to try to get some order into his thoughts.

He was in love with Beckett. That was still true. (Would always be true.)

And ironically, even though Beckett was the cause of all his emotional turmoil, that thought somehow helped to ground him, served as an emotional anchor. (He thought idly of the line of F. Scott Fitzgerald's: _I love her and that's the beginning and end of everything._ It was true.)

He and Beckett had talked. She had explained, at least mostly, why she'd lied to him about remembering her shooting. Understanding why she had immediately lied in the hospital that day was easier. He could accept, acknowledge, that it had not been a good time. She'd just undergone a major surgery, had been under the influence of painkillers and likely not thinking clearly, and perhaps most importantly, she'd still had a boyfriend.

(After all, Dr. Motorcycle Boy's existence had been one of the main reasons he hadn't told Beckett how he felt until that day when the words just couldn't be kept in any longer because he was terrified that he might never get another chance to tell her that he loved her. Until then, he'd been too nervous, yes, but also, it wasn't the sort of thing he did. Castle didn't cheat and that extended to not getting involved with women who were in other relationships. He wouldn't do that to Beckett. He could not declare himself to Beckett when she had a boyfriend and it didn't matter that he was sure Beckett didn't love Josh. He might have resented Dr. Motorcycle's Boy's existence but as long as Dr. Motorcycle Boy did exist, he was a barrier between Castle and Beckett.)

Okay, moving on. He shoved the thought of Dr. Motorcycle Boy out of his mind. He didn't care about that anymore. (That wasn't true but he could move past it.)

The first lie in the hospital wasn't the problem. He didn't like it, hated that she'd lied to him. But honestly, he hated just about everything that had happened as far as Beckett was concerned this summer. Except their phone calls; those were precious, he wouldn't give them up for anything. He just didn't like that even while they'd been talking, she still hadn't told him, had lied by omission every day. Taking from him just enough friendship and support for what she needed while not telling him she knew how he felt. That still stuck in his craw.

He was thinking in circles.

Yes, she'd lied but she'd also apologized. She'd asked for his forgiveness—and Beckett didn't ask for things and she didn't apologize either. From Beckett, just the fact that she'd asked for forgiveness was the equivalent of getting down on her knees and begging. And for Beckett to do that—well, she had to care about him a lot, maybe even… but he wasn't ready to go there yet.

But she'd said—implied—that she wanted a real relationship with him. (He could read between the lines.)

He should be happy. He was happy. Sort of. Tentatively happy? He poked at the idea as if at a sore spot, testing the edges.

She was open to a real relationship with him. He thought—hoped—that one day, she could… care about him the way he wanted her to. (God, he was pathetic. Dancing around the words even in his thoughts as if that would really protect his fragile heart where Beckett was concerned.)

And that was the problem. His heart was fragile where Beckett was concerned. He had no defenses against her.

She'd said she wasn't ready yet. That she didn't think she could have the kind of relationship she wanted until she put "all this" behind her.

But what did that even mean?

She said she wanted to be better. Better how? Better physically, mentally, emotionally?

He knew Beckett—or thought he did—well enough to know that she tended to be a perfectionist. She was methodical and detail-oriented in her paperwork for One PP; she followed the rules of procedure in solving cases and was always, always, driven to be the best, do the best that she could. She set high standards for her team and for herself and expected the best and, in turn, gave the best that she had. It was admirable and he couldn't even describe how much he respected her for it but he also knew that her projected confidence hid a deep vein of insecurity, of doubts. He remembered the way she'd hesitated before going in to interview Dick Coonan last year, the way she'd blamed herself after the trap they'd set for Rathborne hadn't panned out, the way she'd accused herself of letting her mom down.

She was also the most independent, self-sufficient person he'd ever met. (Frustratingly so.) She didn't let people help her. Acted as if even needing anyone's help was a personal failure on her part and therefore unacceptable.

But that didn't really bode well for a real relationship. If she still couldn't let him in, couldn't let him help her, it wasn't going to work. If she tried to keep him at arm's length. To have her but not really, to just be… a warm body in her bed (he ignored the automatic tug of lust at the very thought of being in her bed)—it would kill him slowly.

It was, he thought, in a way, what she was doing now, this summer. Yes, she was healing and needed time and he understood that, he did. But if the last night—hell, their calls this past week and more—had proven anything, it was that he could _help_ her. She'd said that he had helped her, asked him to keep talking to her to help her relax again after her panic attack. She even seemed to want him to help her, to cheer her up, want him to talk to and keep her company. But even so, it was only through the limited medium of telephone calls. They weren't even doing Skype calls where he could actually _see_ her, for god's sake.

Yes, he loved their phone calls; it was a million times better than the silence of the weeks before. But he wanted to do more. He wanted to be the one to cook for her, to keep her company as she walked a little further every day, to drive her to physical therapy if she needed him to and then run a bath for her afterwards. He wanted to be the one to wake her up and soothe her when she had nightmares, wanted to hold her when she had panic attacks.

He wanted to love her. And she knew that—and she wasn't letting him. Even though she appeared to want to have a real relationship with him at some future time when she'd put some vague "all this" behind her.

How long did she want him to wait? _Why_ did she want him to wait—them to wait? Why did she want them to wait for something they both knew they wanted?

For some unspecified "right" time when she was however she defined "better"?

He understood—or thought he did. It was like Beckett to think like that, that she needed to get back to her normal self alone before she should start a new relationship. Orderly, methodical, and never wanting to rely on anyone.

He just wasn't sure he agreed. Because life didn't happen in the right order, wasn't something that could really be planned to happen in sequence. He'd tried that once, marrying Meredith because she'd been pregnant and the "right order" for these things was for marriage to come before a baby and he'd wanted to do things right. And look how that turned out.

Alexis hadn't been planned. He'd been terrified because he hadn't felt remotely ready to become a father at the age of 24—23 when he'd learned that he was going to become a father—he'd barely felt like more than a kid himself but again, life hadn't happened according to any plan he'd had and Alexis had been the best thing that had ever happened to him.

And he could help Beckett now, _wanted_ to help her now. (She had her dad to help her but Castle was relatively sure, knowing Beckett the way he did, that she wouldn't have been relying on Jim to help her with her flashbacks and panic attacks. At most, she would be relying on Jim to help her with her physical recovery, helping her out by doing the things like cooking and cleaning which were still hard for her to do.)

It wasn't that he was impatient. Or fine, it wasn't _only_ that he was impatient. For Beckett, he would wait (hadn't he already waited for her?) if it was what she really wanted or needed. He just wasn't sure it was.

She didn't have to do any of this healing alone. And he wanted—even needed—to be there for her.

Now he just needed to persuade Beckett, the most frustratingly self-reliant person he'd ever met, to let him help her. (This was not going to be easy. Then again, where Beckett was concerned, nothing was ever easy, was it?)

* * *

Kate felt her heart leap, a little flutter of happiness mingled in with some nervousness coming to life inside her chest, when she saw Castle's picture on her caller ID that night. Even as she felt a little shamed that when Castle asked for some time to think, he took less than a full day and agreed to talk, whereas she asked for time and left Castle alone without a word for almost six weeks. He was more of a people person than she was but it was still a salutary reminder of how badly she'd treated him.

"Hey, Castle."

"Hi." He paused and then added, half-apologetically, "I know I said we'd talk tomorrow but I hoped you wouldn't mind too much if I called tonight instead of waiting until tomorrow."

"I don't have some sort of quota as to how much time I'm willing to spend talking to you in one day, Castle," she tried to tease.

He gave a huff that might have been a laugh if it had been allowed to grow up. "Right. Good to know."

There was a brief silence that Castle broke. "I thought we should talk more about… everything."

Of course she shouldn't have expected that they would be done with the serious talking about her lie and her reasons. And if they were going to have a real relationship and make it work, they would need to get used to this, actually talking about things, she reminded herself. But it didn't make the flutter of nervousness, the niggle of apprehension, go away.

God, she really was so bad at this.

"I guess you're right," she agreed, trying to sound braver than she felt.

"Right." He hesitated, another silence humming over the line between them for a moment, before he went on, "You said that you're not ready, that you don't think you can have the kind of relationship you want until you're better."

"Yes." She was finding it hard to breathe suddenly. Was he—was he about to tell her he didn't want to wait? (Why should he wait? Castle could be with any woman he wanted.)

"I can wait. I will wait if that's what you really want. I just…" he huffed and then went on, "Look, Beckett, I'm not quite sure how to say this but how long do you think it'll take to be ready?"

She sucked in a breath. "How… long?" she repeated rather dumbly.

"Yes, how long do you want me to wait? A month, a year, more than that?"

She choked a little. "Are you… giving me a time limit? So that if it takes me too long to… to be ready… you won't wait?"

Oh god, oh god. It was happening again. Just like it had before, last summer with Gina. He didn't _need_ to wait for her. Castle wasn't a man who liked to be alone, after all…

She might be sick.

"What? No! Did I say that? That wasn't what I meant. Do you—do you really think I'd do that, give you some invented deadline and then, what, just walk away from you if you don't meet it? Do you really think that of me?"

"You did before," she blurted out before she'd thought. Shit. She hadn't meant to say that, hadn't meant to bring up last summer at all. She tried to tell herself she was over it, didn't blame him for it, but apparently she'd been wrong. Even after the last year and how much their relationship had changed, strengthened, the hurt still lingered. It played into all her latent doubts, her insecurities, the lingering fear that she wasn't good enough, wasn't worth waiting for. She didn't think that Castle wanted her only to be some notch on his bedpost, not now, not anymore, but she did wonder if she could really be good enough to hold him for long. He was Richard Castle, famous, rich, handsome—what was it that silly woman at the MADT fundraiser two years ago had called him—oh, right, the white whale. He could be with any woman he wanted. And she was… just a cop, a broken, damaged one, who couldn't seem to keep herself from hurting him.

"I did what?" He sounded thunderstruck and just a little angry. "What are you talking about?"

She shut her eyes. God, she really, really shouldn't have brought this up. She didn't want to talk about this, relive that humiliating day in the precinct. The pity in Lanie and the boys' eyes as they watched her watch Castle walk away with Gina. "Last summer," she began, trying (and failing) to sound unaffected, as if she were telling a story of something that had happened to someone else, "I wanted… to go with you to the Hamptons, was going to ask you if you still wanted me to come..."

"Beckett... no… you never…" He began, not so much a denial as it was incredulousness.

She winced a little (even now, at the memory of that moment.) "That's what I was going to tell you out in the bullpen, when I pulled you out of that little farewell party."

"But then Gina showed up," he finished for her, sounding devastated. "Beckett— _Kate_ —I don't—I had no idea—I'm such an _idiot_. God, Kate, I'm so sorry. I…"

Oddly, his self-recrimination did more than almost anything else could have to heal the lingering hurt from that day. Maybe because he so clearly blamed himself for it when it wasn't his fault.

"Don't, Castle, it wasn't your fault," she interrupted him. "It was mine. I can see that now. I didn't tell you—I didn't give you any reason to think I'd go with you. I'd already turned you down and… and I'd started dating Tom," she added, her voice lowering.

"But you broke up with Demming."

She grimaced, feeling the little pang of residual guilt she still felt at the thought of Tom. She'd hurt him, she knew. They might not have been dating for long but she knew he'd liked her a lot, was starting to really fall for her, and she… She had never liked Tom as much as he liked her; she'd _known_ that but she'd told herself that was a good thing, kept her safe, to like Tom just enough but not more. Now, she understood just how unfair that had been to Tom, how wrong. That sort of imbalance in feelings that gave her all the power, all the control, and put him at such a disadvantage because she risked nothing while he was so much more vulnerable.

(That, too, was what was so terrifying about Castle, what had always been so terrifying about Castle. Because she hated not being in control, hated being vulnerable, and with Castle, she knew she was, would be. If she ever gave in to her feelings for Castle, she'd somehow known that she would go up like straw when a match was held to it and now, look at her. Irrevocably in love with him.)

"You broke up with him because you wanted to go with me," he reiterated. (Ridiculously, she felt a little flicker of warmth at the flat certainty in his tone, the way he never questioned for a second that she had broken up with Tom before that moment when she'd been about to ask to go to the Hamptons with Castle. She hadn't told Castle exactly when she'd broken up with Tom but he didn't doubt it. It was, if she'd really needed it, yet more proof of how much he trusted her—and another reminder of how poorly she'd repaid that trust by lying to him about what she remembered about her shooting, what he'd said.)

"God, Kate, I'm sorry," he said again. "We could have—I wish I'd… I shouldn't have turned to Gina like that."

"No, Castle, you don't have to apologize. You didn't know; you couldn't know. I didn't say anything. I didn't give you a reason to wait." She hadn't given him a reason to wait. And that was on her. That was what she needed to do differently now. If she wanted him to wait—and she did—she had to give him a reason.

"No, you didn't," he agreed and although there wasn't even a particle of reproach in his tone, she flinched a little anyway. "But I still shouldn't have turned to Gina. I was… using her… to try to forget my feelings for you and that wasn't fair to her."

"Castle," she gasped, forgetting (almost) her fluttering heart in reaction to his bald confession of having real feelings for her even back then in her dismay at his words. "You weren't using her, not like that. You were with her for another six months; you tried to make the relationship work."

He sighed. "I was fooling myself, though. I think some part of me always knew that but I didn't want to admit it."

Fooling himself about trying to forget his feelings for her… God, he'd had feelings for her so long ago. She might not ever be able to really like Gina but she thought that, finally, the last lingering bits of hurt, of jealousy, over Castle choosing Gina over her had been exorcised. Because he hadn't. She could move on. _They_ could move on.

"It's okay, Castle. It was… a long time ago. We're… past that now, aren't we?"

"Are we?" he returned. "You said… I didn't wait long enough, gave up too soon, and you're right, I did. I'm not going to do that again. I might be an idiot a lot of the time but I'm not that stupid."

He would wait. He was going to wait for her.

She managed a wobbly smile that faded as he went on, "Earlier, when I asked how long it would take, what I was trying to ask—very ineptly, I admit—is what you mean by being ready. What do you think you need to do before you're ready?"

She blinked and frowned. "I just… I want to be… better. Better than what I am now."

"Better how? If this is about your physical recovery, I wouldn't—you know I'd never push you into something you're not ready for, right?"

She felt herself flushing at even this somewhat oblique reference to… a physical relationship, a hot wash of heat flooding her body at the accompanying mental images. Oh. Oh god. She hadn't really thought… Now, she was picturing it, him, his lips and his hands on her body… Uncovering her scars. The thought of her scars acted like a bucket of cold water abruptly dousing the flames of rediscovered desire.

No, she really wasn't ready for a relationship with him, was she? As much as she wanted him (and she did—god, she really did), she wasn't ready yet. Didn't want him to see her like this yet.

"I know," she managed to say. "I trust you, Castle." That, at least, was easier to say.

He let out a huff of breath. "Thank you, Kate."

"It's not about… that. I mean, I'm not sure I'm ready for… that… yet," she stumbled over her own words, feeling ridiculously shy like some Victorian prude who couldn't talk about sex except in vague euphemisms. "It's… me. I just…" God, he wanted her to put this into words, tell him how broken she was? To him, the person whose good opinion she cared about the most? The one who thought she was extraordinary? "I want to be better than what I am," she said again, aware she was repeating herself. "I want to… not have nightmares anymore," she added lamely. That wasn't all but it was as much as she could say. Nightmares were… more normal. Everyone had nightmares sometimes, right? It was… everything else, the flashbacks, the panic attacks, the way she startled so badly at every unexpected sound, the way she still shied away and was reluctant to so much as accompany her dad on his trips to the local grocery store because it felt too open, too loud—and that was a small town, basically a village, especially when compared to the City.

He sighed. "I have nightmares too. You know that. You don't think it makes any difference to me, do you? And I just… I think maybe we could help each other?"

Help each other. Oh, she wanted to. It was a surprisingly seductive idea (odd as the word seemed in this context but it fit), one that tempted her.

But he didn't really know how damaged she was. And of course, he would say such a thing. He was, as she told herself, a kind man and she knew how much he would do for the people he cared about. It would be so easy, so terribly easy, to give in and let him drop everything to help her, to spend the rest of the summer holding her up, soothe her. But she couldn't do that-she _wouldn't_ take advantage of him. She wanted to be good for him, needed to know she wouldn't somehow hurt him because of her issues, her damaged self. He had a daughter to think of, a family, and he had already done so much for her. If their relationship was going to work, if they were going to make it, she needed the balance between them to be more equal, needed to be able to do for him what he had already done for her.

"I'm not good at that," she admitted. "I told you before, I don't let on what's on my mind."

"You didn't used to but that was before, when we never talked about anything. It's different now. You—you've come so far already. _We've_ come so far. I'm not saying it's going to be easy—I'm not sure you and I will ever be easy—but I think… we can make it work. I at least want to try."

Oh, Castle…

Did he think she didn't want this, want him, now, that she wanted to stay apart? But she was doing this for him, for them, because if she started something now when she wasn't ready, when she still couldn't stand on her own two feet (figuratively speaking), she was terrified that she would wreck this, would break them for good. Even now, look at what it took for her to tell him what little she had. Lying to him about knowing he loved her for weeks because she couldn't admit aloud she'd heard him.

"I'm… I'm not ready yet. I need to be… better first, stronger."

He sighed and there was a long pause in which she wondered wildly what he was thinking.

"Look, Beckett, can I say something?" he finally ventured.

She managed a wobbly smile. "Since when do you ask permission before talking?"

"Touché." She heard a faint smile in his voice but then he sobered. "I don't know for sure… I think it's obvious that I can't read your mind but I think I know you by now and I just wonder…"

This hedging was making her nervous. Castle, the impulsive, the one who spoke without thinking so often… "Spit it out, Castle."

"I wonder if… if you think you need to be perfect or something before you can be in a real relationship and that's… I can understand that but the thing is, Beckett, it's not true. There's no such thing as perfect. It's a myth."

"Says the man who believes in aliens and ghosts," she automatically riposted, trying to tease.

He paused and for once, didn't respond to her attempt at humor. "I'm just saying, if you think you need to be… completely healed, totally back to normal as if… all this never happened, you're wrong."

"So I'm just supposed to give up, stop trying to become better?" Accept that she was never going to be healed enough, good enough? Did he really not want to wait?

He gave an exasperated huff. "No, that's not what I'm saying. Does that sound like something I'd say? All I mean is that you don't need to be perfect to be in a real relationship. Because nobody is. Being a work in progress is just part of being human. Someone once told me that we're more than our mistakes."

She choked a little at the words, the reference.

"By the same token, we're more than our faults too. You don't have to be totally healed to be in a relationship." He paused and then added, his tone becoming somewhat warmer, "In case you haven't noticed, I happen to like you as you are now."

She gave a watery smile. "You're not so bad yourself."

He huffed something approaching a laugh. "Thanks. I just want to say… you shouldn't need to change or whatever it is you think you need to do before you're… ready. You might still have some healing to do but that doesn't change the fact that you're extraordinary, remember?"

"We haven't seen each other in months, Castle. You don't know… how messed up I still am…"

(Of course, whose fault was it that they hadn't seen each other?)

He sighed. "Okay, maybe you're right. I don't know everything you're still going through."

He left unsaid but she heard anyway that he didn't know because she wasn't telling him. She still couldn't let him in. And how could she ask him to be in a relationship like that, when she was still tiptoeing around the subject of her feelings, still couldn't tell him everything, tell him how she felt?

He paused and then went on, "I don't want to fight with you about this."

"I don't want to fight with you either."

"Well, I guess we can agree on that. Will you at least think about what I've said?"

She managed a faint smile. "Yes, I'll think about it." She hesitated and then blurted out, "Castle, we're… okay again, right?"

There was a brief pause and then, "Yeah, Beckett, we're okay. I think… we'll be fine. We'll get there."

There, where they could (finally) be together. That future time when she could love him the way she wanted to and be loved by him.

She had to give him more, give him a reason to wait, to know… what they were waiting for.

"Castle?"

"Yeah?"

"I miss…" She stopped, swallowed. She could do this. It was the simple truth. "You." (It was so _stupid_ the way even saying those words had her heart rabbiting inside her chest.)

He let out a long breath that was almost a sigh. "I miss you too, Kate." But what she heard was, _I love you, Kate_. She shut her eyes and breathed and thought that, maybe, the next time he actually said those words to her, she could be—would be—ready. Ready to hear them and ready to say them back.

"Talk to you tomorrow?"

"Til tomorrow, Beckett. And this time, I really mean it."

She managed a smile at his attempt at humor. "There aren't that many more hours in the day so I think you'll manage."

"You shouldn't tempt fate like that or I might have to call you at one minute before midnight."

She huffed a soft laugh. Silly man. "How do you know my phone will even be on?"

"You never turn your phone off. Never know when a body will drop after all." He stopped, apparently remembering that she didn't have to worry about body drops right now. "Oh, well, I suppose you can turn your phone off now."

"I have been for most of the summer," she admitted, "but yeah, it does feel weird."

"Well, enjoy it while you can," he offered.

"I can think of better ways to take an extended vacation but sure," she agreed rather dryly.

He gave a soft laugh. "That's the spirit. Look on the bright side."

"Isn't that your job?"

"I'm willing to delegate," he returned airily and she found herself smiling for real. Oh, this man, who could always make her smile, who made her look forward to tomorrow.

"Good night, Castle."

"Sleep well, Beckett, and as the song says, dream a little dream of me," he said lightly.

"Maybe, but I don't dream and tell," she quipped, even as she flushed at the memory of some of her dreams starring Castle over the last couple years.

He coughed and then responded, in mock affront, "Well, if you're going to be mean…"

She laughed. "Good night, Castle," she said again.

"Night."

And, finally, she heard the tone that indicated he'd ended the phone call.

She ducked her head to hide her silly little smile, not that anyone was around to see it.

Yes, they were okay now, again. And this time, there were no more secrets, no more lies, between them. There was only… hope…

 _~To be continued…~_

A/N 2: Not quite sure how this chapter turned out so all feedback is welcome. Thank you, everyone, for reading.


	11. Chapter 11

Author's Note: Not much Castle in this chapter (and more introspection) but I hope you'll forgive me for it, considering what happens.

 **The Space Between Us**

 _Chapter 11_

Kate wasn't sure what she'd expected after she and Castle had talked, agreed that they were both waiting for her to be ready, hoping for a real relationship. It felt like—was—a milestone and now they were on the other side, as it were.

But at least on the surface, nothing much changed. They returned to the routine of sorts that they had fallen into. They talked on the phone every day about everything and nothing in particular. She was usually the one to call him but now, he called her too, at least a couple times. He called her one day when both Martha and Alexis had left him to his own devices while they had other plans and on another day when he had inadvertently hurt Martha's feelings with a thoughtless remark and she managed to tease him out of his minor funk and advised him to buy Martha a gift to make it up to her.

She told him about how her dad had gotten her into baseball, about going to games at Shea Stadium and a couple at the old Yankee Stadium. Told him the story of the game at Shea when she'd almost caught one of Cano Vega's homers.

He told her how he'd gotten to be such friends with Joe Torre (giving her a moment's pause because it was another sign of just how different they were, that Castle was part of—or could be part of—the milieu of New York's rich and famous, the celebrity circuit as it were.)

She called him one day, only to have to leave a message as he failed to answer, and later, he called her back, explaining that he'd been driving at the time as he, Alexis, and Martha had returned to the city so Alexis could spend a couple weeks with Ashley before he left for Stanford. And somehow, the knowledge that he was back in their city, back in the familiar loft, without her made her feel a sharp stab of missing him (more than she usually did). In a strange way, it had become almost… easier or something, thinking of him in the Hamptons, because she'd never been there with him. The Hamptons were just his… and being apart with him there felt more normal, if that made any sense. But knowing he was back in the city but she wasn't made it feel weirdly as if they were further apart. Ridiculous and irrational of her.

But still, again, these conversations with Castle were fun, the best part of her day. She just… liked talking to him and as basic as the sentiment was, it seemed profound because she couldn't remember ever liking to talk to anyone as much as she liked talking to him. She'd never been much of a talker anyway but somehow, with him, it was different.

She and Josh had seemed to conduct about half their relationship over the phone because their respective work schedules—and Josh's frequent overseas trips—had meant that about half the time, they were basically having a long distance relationship and while it was certainly not the only difference between Josh and Castle, the contrast was stark. She'd tended to view the phone calls with Josh as an obligation, since he was her boyfriend after all, and while the calls had generally been pleasant, she couldn't say she'd ever looked forward to them much.

Now, these calls with Castle were so different it was (almost) amazing. But it still felt like them, like their usual relationship, the friendship, the banter, the laughter.

But every once in awhile, there would be brief pauses, silences, that weren't awkward but seemed filled with all they'd said, all they still weren't saying, the knowledge that he was waiting, that he cared (loved her), that she wanted a real relationship with him… And her breath would become shallow, her heart rate picking up, her cheeks flushing… And she could only think, _soon_. She wanted, so badly, to get better, to be ready for this, for him, soon…

* * *

"Katie, are you sure you don't want me to stay longer? I can call to extend my leave; it shouldn't be a problem," her dad said for approximately the 10th time in the last day or so.

Her dad's leave from work was up so he would be returning to the City after breakfast today and returning to his work from Monday. He'd gone to the grocery store yesterday and picked up enough food to tide her over for at least a week and made a casserole for dinner yesterday that would last her into tomorrow and possibly the day after too. And he kept asking if she was really sure she didn't need him to stay longer.

Kate summoned up her most reassuring smile. "I'll be fine, Dad," she told him (yet again.) "You've done more than enough for me all summer long and I'm so much better. You _know_ I am. You can go back to being a lawyer again and not my nurse."

Her dad managed a small twitch of his lips at this attempt at humor. "I haven't minded taking care of you, Katie."

"I know, Dad, and I'm grateful but I really will be fine." She would be fine. Physically, at least, she was—well, not back to normal, but she had improved enough that for most day to day activities, she barely had to think about her physical restrictions at all. She couldn't lift anything too heavy and her upper body strength wasn't back to where it had been so it would be awhile before she was able to do pull-ups again or climb a ladder or something like that, but otherwise, she could manage.

Her dad still didn't look happy. "You're sure? You're my daughter and you come first for me, before my job, before anything else. And I don't mind staying to take care of you, you know that."

"I'll be fine, Dad. I can manage on my own now. You know how much better I've gotten."

Her dad sighed a little. "I know you're better but Katie…" He hesitated and then finally ventured, "It's not your physical condition I'm worried about so much as it's you… You're still having nightmares, you're still jumpy, Katie." It wasn't a question.

She inwardly flinched. She'd still tried to hide her lingering fears, her nightmares, the panic attacks from her dad but she should have known she wasn't really succeeding. "I'm… getting better," she managed to say, not quite able to meet his eyes.

"Katie…" Her dad sighed. "Look, Katie-girl, if you don't feel comfortable letting me help you, talking to me about your nightmares, then what about Rick? You called him during the thunderstorm last weekend. You said he helped."

"He did." She tried not to tense at the mention of the thunderstorm. She felt irrationally nervous of them now. She pressed her hands down on the table to ground her. She was fine. Really. Was going to be fine.

There was a long minute of silence. Her dad hesitated and then went on, "I can't tell you how to live your life and I don't want to push. You're the one who's actually going through all this and you can decide for yourself what you need to heal and do this your own way. But Katie, I'm still your dad and I love you and I just… will you let me say something?"

"Of course, Dad. You know you can always tell me anything and I'll listen."

"I think you should let Rick help you more, Katie. I know he wants to help. I don't mean to interfere but, Katie-girl, Rick Castle loves you and I know you care about him too."

Kate sucked in her breath at the words, the blunt identification of Castle's feelings. She knew it—of course she did—but it was _different_ to hear her dad tell her so.

"We've… talked. He's waiting. We're waiting," she faltered and wondered why it suddenly sounded so lame.

"I hate to think of you going through all this alone when I know you miss him and I'm sure he's probably desperate to do anything he can to help you. I don't doubt that you can manage alone, Katie. You can recover and heal both body and mind on your own. You're strong and you've never really failed at anything you set your mind to."

She managed a faint smile at her dad's confidence, the words warming her heart. She could do this, could get better.

Her dad reached out and squeezed her hand gently. "I know you, Katie, know how independent you are. But, Katie, needing help sometimes is not a sign of weakness and just because you _can_ heal on your own doesn't mean you should have to." He paused. "Let him help you, Katie."

Let Castle help her. Let him see her like this in all her brokenness.

"Dad, I… I don't… think I know how," she faltered. She wasn't sure but maybe that was really it. She didn't know how to do that, didn't know how to let herself rely on anyone like that. She didn't like other people to see her when she was weak. She burrowed away; she hid.

Just as she was still hiding in a real sense. She and Castle might be talking every day but it was over the phone where he couldn't see her, where all he knew was what she chose to tell him.

There was a long minute of silence that stretched on for long enough that Kate had to look up at her dad. And she blinked and frowned, her heart twisting at the bleakness of his expression. He wasn't looking at her, his absent gaze focused on the refrigerator in the kitchen but she wasn't sure if he was looking towards a picture on the fridge or not really seeing anything at all. She hadn't seen her dad's expression so grim in years, not since… Oh. She stiffened. Not since the early days of her dad's recovery, not since those first, painful conversations she and her dad had had when he'd become sober. She flinched at the memories.

It was her turn to reach out and touch her hand to his arm. "Dad?"

He blinked and turned to look at her, his expression still sad. "This is my fault, isn't it?" It wasn't really a question.

She gasped. "What? No! Dad, how could you—no—this isn't—" she stammered, not even able to get out a coherent sentence.

He thought it was his fault? How could it possibly be his fault? Her heart hurt.

"Katie, do you remember that trip we took out to Coney Island the day of… your mom's funeral?" he asked, his voice shaking ever so slightly at the mention of her mom's funeral. It was, of course, a rhetorical question. Her dad knew that they would both remember that day forever; they could probably forget everything else including their own names and the memory of that day would still be indelibly seared onto their minds and hearts.

She frowned a little in confusion. It wasn't like her dad to resort to non sequiturs. He had to have a point in mentioning that day but she didn't see what it was. "I remember," she confirmed, very quietly. She did. She remembered the choking misery of the day and the feeling of escape when she and her dad left. Remembered the way the wind had tugged her hair out of all order, wrecking the neatness with which she'd pinned her hair back for the funeral. Remembered how old and gray her dad had looked, shrunken in his formal black suit, making him for the first time in her memory seem so much smaller than she was. Remembered the little stick figure she and her dad had made, the way they had collected its "body parts" from the flotsam on the beach, and the way she and her dad had smiled—actually smiled—when they'd finished making it. Remembered the way her hand had felt in her dad's as they walked along the beach, the strength of her dad's grip that had made her feel assured that, whatever else, she wasn't alone.

Her dad looked down at the table for a moment and then back up at her, his eyes shiny with tears that he didn't shed. Her heart clenched. "Do you remember what I said to you on the beach?"

She choked a little at the memories and couldn't speak, only nodded. Of course she remembered.

"I told you that we still had each other and we'd get through it together," her dad went on, his voice unsteady and so quiet she could barely hear it. "I promised—but I broke that promise."

"Dad, no," she protested automatically. She didn't—he hadn't—she didn't think of it like that. She had her dad back, their relationship was fixed now and as strong as ever. She didn't know what she would have done this summer if it weren't for her dad.

"No, Katie, I know I did and I should—I have to take responsibility for that. I wasn't there for you for all those years after your mom died. I failed you for so many years."

The stark, painful truth of that had Kate flinching. She didn't want to think about this, talk about this. She tried never to think about those days. She had her dad back. Those days were over. Done. That wasn't going to happen again. Her dad wasn't going to relapse. (She did believe that now.)

And she had forgiven her dad. They had built their relationship back up from the ruins.

"Dad, no, it's okay," she managed to falter. "I forgave you, you know that. You made it and we're better now."

"You did forgive me and I'm so grateful for that but it's not so easy for me to forgive myself." Her dad's lips twitched into a wan smile that somehow managed to be more poignant than tears. "If your mom knew, I'm sure she would kick my ass for the way I failed you."

"Dad!" Stupidly, she felt her cheeks heat up. And since when did her dad use expressions like 'kick my ass' anyway? It was startling, jarring.

Her dad sighed. "I know I failed you for so many years, made it so that you had to survive on your own because you couldn't rely on me or anyone else. But Katie, that's not the case anymore. I can't tell you what to do; that's always your choice but I hate to see you hurting and trying to do this alone when you don't have to be alone. You have Rick now and I think, from all I've heard and seen, you can trust him."

She choked a little, stupid tears suddenly pricking at the back of her eyes. "I do trust him," she admitted. She did. She trusted Castle more than anyone else in her life except for her dad. Trusted Castle with her life, trusted him with her heart. It wasn't a lack of trust that was the issue.

"Rick cares about you, Katie, and you've said yourself that he helps. I know you've been smiling more because you've been talking to him. I just..." he hesitated and then went on, "I'm worried that you're keeping your distance from Rick now because you're afraid he might let you down the way I did years ago. I don't want you to let your past get in the way of your future. If Rick can make things easier for you, maybe it's time you let him. Katie, take it from me that sometimes the hardest and the most adult thing you can do is ask for help when you need it." Her dad paused. "Just think about it, Katie-girl."

"I will," she promised through lips that seemed to have gone numb. She felt as if her dad had tilted her world up on end.

Her dad patted her hand. "Okay, that's all I ask. You know I'm only saying this because I love you and I want you to be happy, right, Katie-bug?"

She managed a shaky smile. "I know, Dad. I love you too."

"Good. Now, are you sure you don't want any more breakfast, another coffee?"

"I'm fine, Dad," she demurred automatically.

It didn't take long for them to clean up after breakfast or for her dad to pack up the rest of his things and load them into his car. The mundane actions calmed her and distracted her a little from her turbulent thoughts.

"Katie, are you sure you'll be all right on your own?"

She manufactured the brightest smile she could muster and put it on. "I'm sure, Dad."

"Okay but remember, if you change your mind, just call me and I'll turn right around."

"I'll be fine, I promise."

"If you're sure. You have Peter and Nancy's phone number, right, and you know they said they'll be happy to run any errands for you or drive you into town yourself to pick up anything you need."

"I have their number so I'll call if I need anything," she confirmed. Peter and Nancy Nealan were some of their closest neighbors and long-standing friends of her parents, whose house was maybe a quarter of a mile down the lane from the cabin.

"Okay, good." Her dad still hesitated beside his car before he finally just said, "Give my best to Rick, Katie."

She flushed at the mention of Castle's name, her silly heart reacting. "I will. Drive safe and let me know when you get back to the city."

"Will do." Her dad pulled her into a hug and then kissed her cheek. "Take care of yourself, Katie-bug."

"I will. Thanks for taking care of me all summer, Dad."

"As if I could do anything else," he huffed. "You're my daughter; of course I would take care of you."

She managed a smile for him. "Still, I appreciate it. I know I was a terrible patient."

"Never mind that, Katie, just get better and that's all I want."

"I know, Dad. I'll be fine."

"Okay. Call me when you're ready to go back to the City and I'll come out to get you."

"Right," she agreed. "I'll see you in a few weeks."

Her dad gave her a last hug and then, finally, got into his car.

She raised a hand in farewell and watched as her dad backed out of the driveway, pausing at the end to wave at her in turn.

Left alone, Kate turned back to the cabin but then changed her mind and walked around it instead, heading into the woods in back.

She wanted to think and she tended to think better when she was moving (and after the first weeks after her surgery, when she'd been essentially bedridden for weeks, she thought she might have had enough of lying in bed for the foreseeable future.)

Her dad's words played over and over in her mind, the remorse etching deep lines into his expression seeming to haunt her.

He blamed himself for the way she was making Castle wait? He blamed himself…

He was wrong—of course he was wrong. It wasn't her dad's fault. She'd forgiven him, wasn't angry at him; she'd put that behind her.

Right?

She hesitated, her step hitching for a moment, as she wondered. And for the first time in a very long time, she allowed herself to remember, think about the bad years, the first years after her mom's death up until her dad's recovery. She didn't want to; the memories still hurt so that she shied away from the thought.

But… her dad blamed himself. Thought that those years were still affecting her now, holding her back.

And as much as she wanted to deny it categorically, she'd promised her dad she would think about it and more than that, she trusted her dad, knew how well her dad knew her.

She thought about that day on Coney Island after her mom's funeral, the way she and her dad had somehow found a brief space of peace, even content, on that bleakest of days. She still kept that little stick figure they had made, treasured it for the memory.

 _We're going to get through this, Katie. We've got each other so we'll be okay._ That was what her dad had said, a reassurance that they would survive her mom's loss. And she had believed him because she'd still had complete faith in her dad.

But then she'd lost that faith, stopped believing in her dad. Too many times of finding him passed out drunk, too many times of his promising it would be the last time and then drinking again.

Kate slammed a door on the rest of the memories. No, no, she wasn't going to think about it further, didn't want to remember the worst of those years. When she'd been drowning in her mom's case and her dad had been drowning in the bottle and she'd been so alone. The way she'd sobbed and raged at her dad that she felt like an orphan, that she'd lost both her parents on that terrible January day.

She choked on a sob, realizing with a little surprise that her cheeks were wet with tears she hadn't realized she was crying. She stopped in her tracks, tilting her head back to keep the tears from falling, as she huffed out a breath. She was so tired of crying. Tired of feeling so weak, so broken.

She sniffed and swiped away the last tears out of her eyes and resumed her walk. No more. Those days were over. Done. In the past. Her dad was sober now and he would stay that way and she'd forgiven him. She _had._

She really had.

But was she letting her past hurt get in the way of her future, the way her dad had said?

She knew she found it hard to trust, didn't trust quickly or easily. Was that… because of her dad?

She inwardly flinched but had to face and acknowledge the truth that yes, it was, at least in part because of her dad, because of the way she'd lost faith in her dad.

But it wasn't only because of her dad. If it had been her dad alone, she could have—probably—gotten past it. After all, she had forgiven her dad long ago; she and her dad had made their peace and rebuilt their relationship. There was a reason her dad was the only person she'd even thought of allowing to see her during this summer of healing.

But it wasn't only her dad.

She found it hard to trust people and it seemed as if her life experiences had conspired to ensure that she didn't.

Royce had cared about her but he'd kept himself apart and had not tried to save her from falling down the rabbit hole of her mom's case. She had thought he understood and maybe he had, but now, after everything that had happened, she could see that her obsession with her mom's case had not done her any good, not back then when it had almost wrecked her health and her career before Captain Montgomery had stepped in and intervened, and not now, when it had almost gotten her killed. And then Royce had ultimately left her—and then had come back into her life and betrayed her.

Will had cared about her but he had left her too, decided his job was more important to him. (She didn't really count Josh as having been a very important relationship—which said a lot—but even Josh had put his job first.)

And Captain Montgomery—she inwardly flinched, feeling a sharp pang of grief at the thought of her mentor. She had forgiven him his involvement in the conspiracy with Raglan and McCallister but she couldn't deny that it hurt. One more betrayal from someone she'd thought she could trust.

And even Castle—she stopped, startled at the thought, the way her mind had included him. Castle, who made her life better. And yet… even Castle had hurt her. The way he'd looked into her mom's case in the beginning, prying into the most personal part of her past without asking. She had forgiven him for that the moment he'd apologized, so sincerely, and been willing to walk away. But he had hurt her.

And yet… Castle had come back. He had come back and somehow, in the last year (longer than that), she had… fallen for him for real and, skeptic that she was, she'd started to believe in him, in them. When he said 'always,' she believed him. He had _come back_ and in the last year since then, he'd never let her down. Through multiple shootings and freezers and dirty bombs, he'd never left. He had hopped on a flight and flown across the country to help her find Royce's murderer (she'd always known that he'd done it for her sake, that the ploy about visiting the _Heat Wave_ set was just that). Even after she'd kicked him out of her apartment and told him they were over, he had come back, had come to the hangar and saved her life. And somehow, she'd realized, accepted, that she had someone—Castle—who wouldn't leave, who would always have her back, who would stand beside her in the battle.

And these last couple weeks—the way he had forgiven her for hurting him (repeatedly), the way he still made her smile and laugh, the way he'd talked her through her flashback that night of the thunderstorm.

Someone who would stand beside her in the battle—that was what Castle was to her.

It was what he wanted to be to her, she knew that.

Holding herself back from Castle because she was still afraid he would let her down—was that what she was doing?

It wasn't. She had reasons; she wanted to be better, stronger, for him. She didn't want to be so damaged, didn't want him to see her like this. She didn't want to take advantage of him, of his kindness.

And yet…

She suddenly remembered what he'd told her last week, his words replaying in her mind.

 _I have nightmares too. You know that. You don't think it makes any difference to me, do you? And I just… I think maybe we could help each other?_

He might not know the full extent of it, how bad her trauma still was, but he was smart enough to guess. And he still… wanted her, wanted to be with her. He had made his choice and he chose her. God, he chose her… It was a humbling… amazing thing. She wasn't even sure she understood why or felt that she deserved it but he had chosen her. Shouldn't she respect his choice, not assume that it wasn't fair to inflict her damaged self on him?

He wanted to help her. Maybe even needed to help her—she suddenly thought of the way she'd felt when he'd called her after his nightmare, that desperate wish that went beyond wanting to help him. Oh. She'd told herself she didn't want to hurt him because of her issues—and she didn't—but what if… the distance between them, the distance she was imposing, was hurting him too?

And if so, what was the point of that distance, why was she clinging to it? Was it just pride?

No, not just pride. She had never been very good at letting people see her when she was vulnerable but her experiences had made it even harder. She didn't believe in relying on other people because her experience had told her that when it came down to it, a person could only rely on herself. She had built up her life from the ruins before, after her mother had been murdered, and she had done it alone because she'd had no one else.

Oh. Kate stopped short, sucking in a sharp breath. That was what her dad had been talking about. Doing this alone, thinking she had to heal alone because it was what she was used to, when she didn't need to be alone. When she had Castle, who loved her and wanted to help her.

That was what Castle had been trying to tell her too, that she didn't need to heal or be perfect, as he'd put it, before letting him in. She didn't need to be perfect—he wasn't perfect either. If she was haunted by the trauma of her shooting, so was he. Maybe not quite as severely but still haunted. She remembered the way he'd called her because of his nightmare. It was possible—probable?—that he needed her in order to heal too.

Letting her past get in the way of her future—with Castle.

Waiting to be ready, making him wait. Why was she making them wait for something she knew they both wanted?

She didn't want him to see her scars, true. But what good did waiting do? She was procrastinating in a sense. It wasn't as if her scars would go away in a month, three months, a year. The scars would be there forever and short of a platonic relationship where Castle never saw her naked—which was absolutely not an option—he was going to see her scars sooner or later. (Sooner.)

She was afraid. Afraid of loving him so much (too late for that). Afraid of needing him so much and losing the strength, the independence, she prided herself on (but she'd already admitted she needed him, couldn't really do this without him—was she trying to prove she could still stand on her own by trying to do this alone?) Afraid that something would happen to him (but she was always going to be afraid of that and making Castle wait wouldn't make it any easier if anything did happen to Castle—God forbid—would only make it worse because she'd also have the regret of never really being with him, never knowing what it would really be like to be loved by him.)

She was being a coward, she thought, not for the first time. A foolish one, at that.

She thought about her dad saying she'd never really failed at anything she set her mind to, thought about the way Castle said she was extraordinary, that she'd inspired him to create Nikki Heat because of the way she'd overcome her past.

Maybe… it was time to prove them right, time to be the person her dad and Castle already believed she was. Time to choose to be brave and find the strength to let someone else—let Castle—help her.

* * *

Kate was nervous.

It was stupid and ridiculous and totally irrational since she and Castle had been talking on the phone every day for weeks and even beyond that, they'd known each other for years now. But her own little pep talk didn't entirely work to dissipate her tension. (She didn't even know why she was so nervous.)

Really.

She'd made her decision, thought about it all day, and she hadn't changed her mind. This was right. This was what she needed to do.

And when had she last been so nervous to talk to Castle? (A week ago—after he'd found out about her lie and then helped her through a flashback.) Okay, that wasn't a helpful answer.

But they were so much closer now. Their relationship stronger.

This was only… the first next step in their relationship. (Oh god.) But it really was. Even if it wasn't said in so many words—and she didn't think it would be—there was no way, after what they had already said, after the way they both knew he was waiting for her to be ready, that he wouldn't understand this invitation to be the next step. It wasn't only about being friends. (For that matter, she wasn't sure they'd been 'only friends' for a long time now.)

She let out her breath and mentally steeled herself as she pressed the button to call Castle.

"Greetings and salutations, Beckett," Castle's voice answered.

The extravagance of his words, the cheerfulness of his tone, had her laughing, a little of her tension easing. (He could always make her laugh, couldn't he?)

"You can't just say 'hello', Castle?" she teased.

"I'm a writer. Saying 'hello' is boring."

"And heaven forbid that you be boring," she returned wryly.

"Exactly," he agreed airily, "since being boring is just about the worst insult you can give to a writer."

"Yeah, well, you're a lot of things but boring isn't one of them."

He gave an exaggerated sigh of relief. "Thank you. I was really worried for a minute there."

She laughed again. Silly man. But the very silliness of the conversation had warmth blossoming in her chest, so much affection and hope and tentative courage. This was Castle, the man she knew so well, the man who'd stayed with her through so much danger, who'd forgiven so much. "My dad says hi."

"Hi to Jim. How is he?"

"He's fine. He actually headed back to the city this morning. His leave is up and he has to go back to work from Monday."

"Wait, you mean, you're all alone at the cabin?" From Castle's tone, he'd suddenly straightened up.

"Yeah. He didn't like the idea of leaving me alone," Kate hurriedly added, "but work is, well, work and I told him I could manage."

"Oh, okay," Castle responded carefully.

She felt a small twinge because she could hear the restraint in his tone, knew that he was forcibly refraining from commenting further, either by expressing concern over her ability to take care of herself or by offering help. Not because he wasn't worried but because he knew her too well, was trying to give her space and time.

And oddly (or not), his very self restraint made what she was about to ask easier. She could trust him, knew she could. Castle, of anyone, knew how self-reliant she was and after he'd intruded into her mom's case years ago, he hadn't overstepped like that again. She suddenly found herself remembering what he'd said to her when she'd gone to the loft after learning that Jack Coonan had been killed by her mom's murderer: _I will do anything that you need, including nothing if that's what you want._ And even after all this time, even after so much had happened, he was keeping his promise.

Of course, thinking all this was still easier than putting it into words. She was so bad at this, at asking for help of any kind.

But she'd promised herself to do better, to stop hurting him. And after all these weeks, this was what she needed to do. Overcoming her past in order to grasp her future.

"I know you might be busy and you have Martha and Alexis to think about but I was thinking…" Her breath was coming unevenly— _get a grip, Kate!_ "I was wondering if you might… come out to the cabin."

"Yes," he blurted out almost before she'd finished.

"I mean, you don't have to—" she hurried on, her words overlapping with his, "wait, you will?"

"Of course." There was a smile in his voice, she could hear it, could picture the way his eyes would have crinkled at the corners, become a brighter shade of blue.

"But… what about Alexis?"

"My mother can look after Alexis for a few days. Or Alexis can look after my mother. Either way, it's not a problem. If you want me to be there, I'll be there."

It wasn't quite 'always,' but it was close. And not for the first time, Kate marveled at how she could possibly have gotten so lucky as to be loved so deeply by such a man. It was so much more than she deserved, with how she'd treated him, but oh, she wanted it, wanted to be the one to love him back.

"Oh. Thanks, Castle."

"Anytime. Partners, right?" he responded with an attempt at lightness.

"Partners," she agreed, even as her very skin seemed to hum with the awareness that they weren't only partners, would not be only partners.

"Castle," she blurted out.

"Yeah?"

"I… it'll be… nice to see you again," she finished lamely, the words so trite, so oddly formal, and yet also the truth.

He let out a breath. "Yeah, you too."

"I'll text you the cabin's address."

"That would be great."

"So I guess… I'll see you tomorrow?" And at the words, she couldn't help the smile blooming on her face, the nervousness dissipating to be replaced by a flurry of butterflies. Tomorrow. She would see Castle tomorrow.

"See you tomorrow, Beckett." She could hear the smile in his voice, knew that his expression would be mirroring hers.

She ended the call and quickly texted him the cabin's address and he responded immediately with a "thanks. See you tomorrow!" along with a smiley-face emoticon.

She smiled down at her phone. Yes, after all, she thought she was ready to see Castle again.

 _~To be continued…~_

A/N 2: Kate is stubborn, as you might have noticed, so it takes a shock, of sorts, to really push her out of the rut of her thoughts after she's made up her mind; consider Jim's talk in this chapter the easier, gentler version of someone throwing Kate off a roof (and there's less standing between Kate and Castle in this fic so I figured the gentler version would work.) Up next, Kate and Castle will finally see each other again…

Thank you all for reading.


	12. Chapter 12

Author's Note: Without further ado, Castle and Beckett in the same place again. I hope it's worth the wait!

 **The Space Between Us**

 _Chapter 12_

Kate wasn't ready.

She was in the kitchen drinking water and just beginning to think about lunch when she heard the crack of a twig breaking, the sound of a car approaching. And immediately tensed, her heart starting to race.

She made her way to the front window, keeping out of sight behind the curtain, to see an unfamiliar car pulling in. It wasn't the Nealans' car. And it couldn't be Castle; she wasn't expecting him for another couple hours since it was almost a full five-hour drive out here from the city.

Shit. Oh god. Who had found her out here? No one knew she was here except for Lanie and Castle.

She glanced around wildly for something to use to defend herself but even as she thought it, she knew it wasn't an option. She didn't have her gun. She might be healing but she was in no sort of shape for physical combat. Oh god. She needed to run, needed to hide, even if it went against every instinct she had.

The car door opened and Kate tensed like a wild animal sensing danger when she caught just the briefest glimpse of a profile. And went weak in the knees from the flood of relief she felt.

It couldn't be Castle—but somehow, amazingly, it was.

Shock held her immobile for a second and she watched as he said something into the phone—likely talking to Alexis, she guessed—looking around as he did so.

He smiled into the phone and the sight of his smile galvanized her and she rushed towards the door and out onto the front porch, her heart still beating too fast but from happiness this time.

Castle. Finally. Castle.

His eyes swung to her the moment the door opened and he said a few quick words she couldn't hear at that distance before ending the call and walking towards her.

Oh god, she wasn't ready.

She froze on the front porch, staring at him as her heart thrashed around in her chest and her lungs seemed to have forgotten how to function.

Oh god, he was here. He was here and she really wasn't ready. Wasn't ready for the sheer physical impact of seeing him. The sight of him for the first time in more than two months walloped her over the head, left her breathless and almost dizzy.

She'd… forgotten, she thought a little fuzzily. Forgotten the sheer physical presence of him. She'd gotten used to Castle as being little more than a disembodied voice over the phone, an image in her mind.

Seeing him for real was… felt like an electric shock tingled all through her body.

Castle. Dressed more casually than she was used to, in a t-shirt and jeans and wearing sunglasses. The t-shirt showed off the breadth of his shoulders, his chest, the size of his biceps. (God, she'd had no idea what he was hiding beneath those button-downs of his. She felt a charge of visceral attraction, as if every cell in her body responded to the sight of him, powerful enough that her mouth went dry. Over the last couple years, she had somewhat trained herself not to react to the sight of Castle, trained herself to mostly ignore her own attraction to him, but after the long drought, all her defenses were down and it was as if he were an attractive stranger—and she wanted him.)

And had he always been so tall?

He looked… oh god, he looked so good and she abruptly became aware that she was still sweaty from her morning workout and dressed in an old, somewhat ratty shirt and loose yoga pants, her hair tied back into a sloppy pony-tail, her face entirely bare of makeup. It was pretty much what she'd been wearing all summer long and it had never mattered when there was only her dad to see her and for the first half of the summer, she'd been in too much pain to care what she wore anyway. But it was a very different thing to be seen by Castle looking like this. She'd planned to shower and be somewhat more suitably dressed for company, wearing jeans rather than yoga pants, by the time he arrived.

She belatedly became aware that she'd just been staring at him—fine, devouring the sight of him with her eyes (although, in fairness, so was he)—and managed to say, a little breathlessly, "Castle, you're here."

It was an asinine thing to say but at that moment, Kate couldn't bring herself to care, not when he was, still, staring at her as if she was the sun and the moon put together.

"Beckett," was all he said.

And then he was smiling (and oh god, his _smile_ ) and so was she and he was taking his sunglasses off and hurrying up the porch steps until he was standing in front of her, close enough that if she reached out, she could touch him. (She had to clasp her hands together to keep from doing something stupid like running her hands up over his chest—had the muscles of his pectorals always been so well-defined?)

God, his eyes were so blue and she'd thought she remembered that, had certainly pictured them often enough, but somehow, her memories hadn't done them justice. Because his eyes were so deeply blue, so bright, they would have made the Hope Diamond look dull.

"Castle," was all she managed to say.

"You're short," he blurted out and then his eyes widened with almost comical dismay as he looked as if he momentarily wished the earth would open up and swallow him.

A bubble of laughter escaped her and somehow, ridiculously, she felt more like herself again. Yes, this was still Castle. And she was Beckett. (For the first time all summer, she thought of herself by her precinct name, felt more like her old self than she had in months.)

She lifted one foot to draw his eyes to her sneakered feet. "That's 'cause I'm not wearing heels, Castle," she offered lightly.

He grimaced. "Right, of course. Sorry." He huffed out a breath and then quirked one of his more usual, slightly crooked smiles. "Hi. I made it."

"You did. And you're earlier than I expected."

He didn't respond, was just studying her, his eyes roaming her face, and she felt herself flushing under his gaze, the intensity of it. The way he looked at her as if she was a miracle.

"You're staring. I know I look like a mess right now."

"No, you don't," he denied quickly. "I just… can't really believe I'm seeing you again."

She couldn't quite hide her wince. It had been so many weeks since she'd sent him away.

And he saw it. "No, Beckett, I wasn't—that's not what I meant. I just…" He let out a frustrated breath and ran a hand through his hair. "Sorry, I seem to be constantly saying the wrong thing."

"It's okay, Castle. It's been a while." They might have been talking every day but this in-person thing was different. It seemed… new, tentative, awkward.

"Yeah, I guess." He paused, his expression changing. "Oh, I forgot! I brought something for you."

"You got me a gift?" she repeated incredulously. She'd called him last night and judging by his arrival time here, he must have left the city only a little after 7. When had he even had time to prepare a gift for her? "Castle, you shouldn't have—"

"It's not a gift," he interrupted her. "Not really. Just wait."

He turned and ran lightly down the steps back towards his car. A Mercedes, she noticed belatedly. (Her earlier panic suddenly seemed even sillier. A criminal threat or hired gun or whatever would hardly be likely to arrive in a Mercedes. _Get a grip, Kate!_ )

He reached into the back seat of the car to grab a duffel bag and then opened the driver side door and took out a thermos. Of course, if he'd left so early, he must have wanted a coffee for the road.

That done, he locked the car and returned to her and surprised her by handing the thermos to her. "Your coffee, Beckett," he said, quite as he did most mornings.

She blinked. He'd brought her coffee. Again. Still. She caught up the thermos, a smile already breaking free, even though she fully expected the coffee to be lukewarm at best after a five hour long trip in his car. But it was coffee. His coffee. She took a cautious sip—cold coffee wasn't pleasant—but then paused and then drank more deeply, her eyes fluttering closed as a moan got trapped in the back of her throat. Mmm. Ooh, yes, this was what she'd been missing. The coffee maker at the cabin was a basic one and while it produced serviceable coffee, it wasn't—could not be—the same. This, though, this really was her coffee, the same one he'd always brought her, two pumps of vanilla and all, and it was, amazingly, still quite warm. Not as scalding hot as she usually drank her coffee but still, warm. (God, she loved this man.)

But as usual, she resorted to teasing. "You brought me coffee. I guess you can stay after all."

He was staring at her, his eyes dark—what?—but then she belatedly remembered the way she'd moaned and—oh. She felt herself flush and her heart flutter at the realization that she could still affect him so even dressed as she was in the most unsexy outfit possible. But then he coughed and managed what sounded like a rather forced laugh. "My diabolical plan worked." His lips quirked. "I even transferred your coffee into a special thermos guaranteed to keep drinks hot for up to 8 hours."

She laughed. "Smart, Castle."

He pretended to preen. "I have my moments."

He'd brought her coffee; she couldn't quite bring herself to depress his pretensions as she usually would. "Yeah, you do," she agreed and then added lightly, "But even a stopped clock is right twice a day."

He pulled a mock pout. "Oh, ouch, Beckett, that stings."

"Get used to it, Castle." She paused to open the door. "Come on in."

"Why, Beckett, I thought you'd never ask."

It felt a little odd to be smiling so widely and for so long, her cheeks stretching.

He glanced around as he walked in. "Nice."

She made a gesture. "The guest room is down at the end of the hallway if you want to put your stuff away and the bathroom is just next to that."

"That would be great, thanks."

Castle headed down the hall and Kate wrapped her arms around herself and tried to calm herself, breathe normally. As nice—okay, better than nice—as it was to see Castle again, it didn't feel… normal, their banter a little forced. They were both trying too hard to seem normal.

It surprised her and rather disappointed her too because somehow she'd thought—hoped—that once he arrived and she saw him again, everything would fall into place and they'd just be themselves again, only more, better. But apparently, talking every day over the phone wasn't quite enough to make up for not seeing him in person for two months and things were just… different.

She was being ridiculous, she scolded herself. Of course things would be different after everything that had happened. She felt practically like a different person herself.

And that was fine. They just needed some time, to re-accustom themselves to the other's presence.

Castle emerged in a couple minutes and she glanced back at him from where she was in the kitchen. "I was just about to have lunch. You haven't eaten yet, have you?"

"Nope. I drove straight here and only stopped to fill up the tank."

"You didn't need to leave so early. I wasn't expecting you for another couple hours."

He shrugged. "It wasn't like I had anything else to do."

What he didn't say was that he'd been eager to see her, that he'd missed her, possibly even as much as she'd missed him. But then did he need to say it?

They put together sandwiches for lunch working side by side and then moved to sit down at the table. He kept shooting glances at her and even though she tried not to, she couldn't quite keep from glancing at him, her eyes constantly seeming to be drawn to him.

Was she imagining it or had he lost some weight over this summer? It looked like he might have but given the way his button-downs had also concealed the muscles of his chest, she couldn't be sure. (And good lord, his chest, his arms… She couldn't seem to help staring at them either—and maybe his button-downs were a good thing after all because it occurred to her that if he'd dressed like this in the precinct, her ability to concentrate at work would have been severely diminished.)

She thought—hoped—he wasn't noticing but then the third time his gaze snared hers, a smirk tugged at the corners of his lips. "You're staring, Beckett, and I have it on good authority that staring's creepy."

She flushed. Damn it. "You look different, that's all," she temporized lamely.

"It's okay, Beckett. I know my rugged handsomeness is hard to look away from," he said airily.

She snorted. "In your dreams, Castle."

"In my dreams, you do a lot more than just stare," he shot back immediately.

She choked on air, blushing hotly. "Castle!" It was the most direct innuendo he'd said to her in months.

He sat back with an air of exaggerated innocence. "It's only the truth," he said as primly as if he'd just announced something as anodyne as a comment on the weather.

She narrowed her eyes at him, even as she had to bite her lip to keep from smiling (because, damn it, he was kind of adorable when he tried to look innocent.) "You are incorrigible."

"Didn't you know that about me already?"

"Oh, right, I did. It must've slipped my mind," she said dryly.

"It's lucky I'm here then since I can't have you forgetting about me."

"Yeah, lucky, or something," she grinned and he laughed and somehow, oddly, she felt the lingering awkwardness dissipate and suddenly, it felt like them again. Still Castle and Beckett—still friends and partners. It was strangely reassuring, that becoming more than just friends wouldn't change the essence of their relationship, that they'd still have the teasing and the banter.

The rest of lunch passed quickly as they chatted easily and lightly and afterwards, Castle wandered into the main family room area of the cabin, heading (predictably, she supposed) to the bookshelf.

"I like your collection of Richard Castle's books," he teased.

Her—oh—Kate stiffened a little. She'd forgotten about those, so used to their presence that they were practically like any of the other furnishings of the cabin and didn't impinge on her consciousness anymore. She hesitated, felt the usual instinct to hide behind banter, evade, but for once, she pushed it back. No, she should tell him. "They're not mine," she answered carefully.

He threw a confused glance back at her. "Not yours? But—" He looked back at the books and she knew the moment he understood, something in the set of his shoulders alerting her. She'd known he would figure it out. He knew his own books; it wasn't going to take him long to realize that these were only his early works, ending with _Flowers For Your Grave_ , that had been published the summer of 1998. He turned slowly around to look at her. "Kate?"

She met his eyes. "Those were my mom's," she told him quietly.

He sucked in a breath and then came over to join her on the couch, leaving just a little bit of space between them. "Kate…"

She tried for a smile but only managed a small twitch of her lips. "My mom liked your books. She didn't usually have much time to read so that was what she did when we came out here; my dad would disappear for the day to go fishing and half the time or so, I'd go with him and when she was alone, my mom would read. That's why your books are here."

"I had no idea," he said quietly.

"I never told you," she returned equally quietly.

"Why didn't you?" It wasn't a reproach, only mild curiosity.

She hesitated but she met his eyes and knew she had to be honest. "At first, it was because I thought… I thought you might make fun and I couldn't stand that."

"I wouldn't have—" he denied automatically and then stopped, grimacing, "No, you're right, I might have. I hadn't grown up then, was still such a jackass."

Oddly, his denial only convinced her of the opposite. "No, you wouldn't have, not even back then. You were a wiseass, not a jackass." She remembered the utter gravity of his expression when she'd first told him about what happened to her mom; even back then, he'd never cracked wise about anything to do with her mom. Now, knowing him the way she did, it didn't surprise her but at the time, it had.

His eyebrows quirked, his mouth tugging up into a smirk. "Were?"

She had to smile. "Right, my mistake, you are a wiseass, not a jackass."

He smirked but then sobered. "Thank you for telling me, Kate."

"It seemed like it was time." She tried for nonchalance but had a bad feeling that she failed.

"Still. And that reminds me, I have something for you."

"Castle," she protested.

"You'll like it, Beckett, I promise." And so saying, he disappeared down the hall and reappeared a minute later, handing her a medium-sized, flat box.

She tried to cover for her emotion by shooting him a mock suspicious look. "Is something about to leap out at me if I open this?"

He pasted on a look of affected injury. "I'm shocked that you even think I'd do such a thing."

She allowed herself a snort. "You so would."

He had the grace to look sheepish (and adorable.) "Okay, fine, yeah, I would but not now. So just open it already."

She turned back to the box, lifting the lid off it and folding back the tissue paper to reveal a stack of paper, bound along the margin so it looked something like a school report.

But in the center, in plain typescript, were the words _Heat Rises_ , by Richard Castle.

She swivelled her gaze up to look at him.

"It's the final draft of the manuscript, the one that gets sent off to the printers to be published. Black Pawn just sent it to me a couple days ago. And I did promise you'd get to read it before it was published, didn't I?"

She smiled and didn't even bother trying to dim the brightness of it. It wasn't like he didn't already know she was a fan. "Thanks, Castle."

He returned her smile. "You're welcome."

She looked back down at the manuscript, smoothing a hand over the front page (fighting a sudden wave of unreality at the thought that she was seeing the unpublished manuscript of her favorite living author's next book) and then, remembering what he'd told her about planning to dedicate it to Captain Montgomery, turned to the next page. And yes, he had dedicated it to Captain Montgomery. She had to blink back the tears that pricked at the back of her eyes as she read the tribute. And beneath it, in his own familiar handwriting, he had added, _And for Kate. Always. RC._

She looked back up at him with a wobbly smile. "I like the dedication. Thank you."

He lifted his shoulders into a small shrug but the casual gesture was belied by the look on his face. The look she'd seen before when he was feeling a lot but wasn't quite able to put his emotions into words. "I meant it."

"You should send a copy to Evelyn so she and the kids see what you wrote about Montgomery."

He nodded. "I'm going to."

She could feel the tug of temptation, the siren call of the manuscript, wanting to lose herself in his words, in the world he could create so well, but she resisted it for now. Yes, she wanted to read his words but even his words were less important than the reality of his presence.

"I'll read it tonight. But now that you're here, want me to show you around? Well, there's not much to see but we could go for a walk."

"A walk sounds great."

That settled, they headed outside for a walk, Kate automatically taking the path she'd been walking all summer for her recovery as she pushed herself to walk further every day, with Castle easily falling into step beside her. It felt so… familiar to be walking beside Castle again, their arms brushing occasionally, being able to glance at him and see the faint smile playing on his lips, the gestures of his hands as he talked.

Yes, she had missed this, missed him. Talking to him over the phone wasn't a substitute for being able to see him, see the play of expression on his face, the light in his eyes. And there was no substitute for his presence, the rightness of feeling the warmth of him beside her.

Her arm brushed against his again and on a sudden impulse she didn't try to resist, she slipped her hand into his. He broke off mid-sentence to stare at their joined hands and then back up at her, so much hope and love and joy and some lingering caution warring for dominance in his eyes. She felt herself flush but managed to give him a small smile. She might not be ready to tell him everything she felt, might not be ready for him to see her scars, but she could give him this. A promise that she was trying and she really did want this, them.

He cleared his throat and after a moment, resumed the story he was telling about a book tour he'd been on a few years ago but his hand tightened its clasp on hers, his grip warm and solid and reassuring. He understood. And they really were getting there.

* * *

A few hours later, Kate was no longer quite as sanguine as she had been.

How had she forgotten just how irritating Castle could be?

The rest of the afternoon and dinner had passed in amicable companionship, somehow feeling as if they'd recaptured the ease of conversing they'd found over their daily phone calls these last weeks. And while there were moments, times, when she thought that in some ways, phone calls had been easier because she couldn't see the way he'd look at her sometimes in that way that made her breath become shallow, her heart fluttering, her mind going blank—overall, it was still better. Better to be able to see his smile rather than just picture it, better to be able to see the way his laugh lit up his eyes.

But then after dinner, she'd asked if it was okay if she read _Heat Rises_. He'd agreed and picked out a book from her dad's collection of books to peruse himself. And they'd started to read in silent companionship.

For the space of about two minutes.

Because then Castle huffed a breath, glanced up at her (she felt his glance), shifted in his chair, put his book down, picked the book up again.

"There's a quick plot twist about halfway through the first chapter; let me know what you think of how it's done."

She gave him a quick, distracted glance, but returned to the book immediately, already feeling a ridiculous flicker of concern at the hint of a potential issue between Nikki and Rook. "Mmm."

He left her to read in peace. For the amount of time it took for her to read a page and half.

And then "Don't worry about the stuff about Captain Montrose. It's nothing close to what Montgomery did."

That jarred her out of the fictional world. "You already told me that, remember?"

He had the grace to look rather chastened. "Oh, right." He flapped a hand at her. "Sorry. Go on."

She returned to the manuscript and tried to go on, sink into the world of Nikki. Tried and failed.

Because Castle was still watching her and then he was shifting in his chair (again) and then he was standing up and then sitting down and then standing up again and wandering restlessly around the room and generally acting like the hyperactive child with attention deficit disorder that he occasionally resembled. Usually, at the precinct, when one of his fidgety spells hit, he wandered over to the boys' desks or to the break room (half the time when he supplied her with coffee, she knew it was because he was restless and wanted to be doing something) but now, in the close confines of the cabin, he had nowhere to go and his perambulations were seriously distracting. And annoying. (Apparently, loving him hadn't obviated his ability to make her want to strangle him.)

Really! He wasn't usually so bad. What on earth had gotten into him? (And some of her old, old fears that they were just too different to deal well together on a daily basis flickered through her mind. She loved him—she did—but if he couldn't even leave her alone while she was trying to read one of his books, how could this ever work? She knew herself, knew she was always going to need some space and time to herself in order to process and recharge, and if he couldn't give her even a few minutes, how would she ever manage to live with him?)

"Castle! What is your problem?"

He abruptly looked guilty and a little apprehensive (with good reason). "Sorry, sorry," he said rapidly. "I just… I don't like it when people read my books."

She scoffed. "Are you kidding me? You're a bestselling author; millions of people read your books."

He grimaced. "Yeah, but I don't have to watch them when they're reading. I don't like to see people reading my books." He gave a small shrug. "It gets me antsy."

Wait. Was he—he was nervous, she realized, catching the flash of vulnerability that flickered across his expression. Her annoyance faded. Castle was always so cocky when it came to his writing; it had somehow never occurred to her that he might honestly question how good he was. Oh, she knew he wasn't as vain as his words occasionally indicated but where his writing was concerned, she'd never questioned his confidence. And maybe—remembering the way he'd acted at his book launch party—he normally was confident. But—it occurred to her now—not where she was concerned. She had thought it before—that his opinion was the one that mattered most to her. Now, she realized that the reverse might well be true of him. Her opinion was important to him. And he didn't know—she'd never told him—just how much his books meant to her.

"The story's already got me hooked, Castle," she admitted, her tone softer. "But I can't concentrate with you pacing like this. Maybe you should go play computer games or something in the guest bedroom? You brought your laptop, right?"

"I'm a writer. Of course I brought my laptop."

She gave him a small smile. "Okay, then. I'll tell you the moment I finish the book. Deal?"

The corners of his lips quirked upwards into a faint smile. "Deal."

With a quick flicker of a glance at the manuscript—that revealed probably more than he knew about how much he cared what her opinion of it would be—he disappeared down the hall.

And left alone, Kate (finally) returned to the world of Nikki Heat. And as usual, his words sucked her in and she was enthralled, completely absorbed, before the first chapter was over. Noticing nothing of the real world until Captain Montrose was killed and she gasped, her hand flying up to flatten over her damaged heart, as she blinked back tears—unsure if they were over Captain Montgomery or for the fate of his fictional counterpart—and went on reading, her impatience to know more, get to the end of the story gnawing at her.

But she kept her hand over her heart, as if to protect it, and felt another quick pang of something like physical pain—almost ridiculous envy—at how Nikki was able to lean on Rook after Captain Montrose had died, how Nikki let Rook hold her. The comfort that Kate herself had not had—had not allowed herself after Montgomery's death (because there'd been Josh and things were complicated and she was terrified). Castle was writing what he wished he'd been able to do for her, she thought, and her heart hurt.

But that was nothing to the way she felt at the end, choking on a gasp and a sob commingled, as Nikki held onto Rook as he bled out in a dark warehouse. Kate had no idea how she managed to read through her tears the few pages remaining in the story, the ultimate reveal of the killer for once seeming insignificant as Kate was still reeling emotionally over what Castle had done to Rook.

"Castle!"

She thought later that he must have been waiting because he appeared only a few seconds later, his expression changing from nervous anticipation to concern the moment he saw her.

"God, Beckett, I didn't mean to make you cry," he said gently as he joined her on the couch, hesitating before he curled his fingers around her hand.

She sniffed a little and managed to give him a watery little smile of reassurance. "I'm okay but… why would you—how could you do that to Rook?"

He sighed and tightened his grip on her hand. "When I wrote it, I hadn't heard from you yet, didn't know how you were doing or anything. And I just… I wrote it out. It seemed like… the only thing I could do, save you on paper."

Having Rook do what he hadn't been able to do, take the bullet for her.

"Castle… tell me you're not still blaming yourself. I told you… I would never have wanted you to… do that."

He hesitated. "Not blaming myself, not exactly, but… it just seemed… it was easier to hurt my fictional counterpart."

He would rather hurt himself than her. She wondered, again, just what he'd suffered during those weeks of silence and marveled at how he could—and had—forgiven her for it.

"You won't… you're not going to let him die, are you?"

"No, I won't do that." He gave her a faint smile. "That's not how this story goes. He'll wake up, he'll have some scars, but with help and time, he'll be okay."

"Good. I think… Nikki needs him in her life."

Something flared in his eyes at her words, her admission. Because he knew—of course he did—that she wasn't only talking about Nikki and Rook. Their ability to communicate through subtext alive and well.

"You really think so?"

It was amazing the way a look from him could constrict her breathing. "Yeah, I do."

"That… works out then," he said slowly. "Because Rook needs Nikki too."

He did? He needed her?

"He does?" She inwardly cringed at how breathless she sounded (it was so not like her) but she couldn't seem to help it.

"Of course he does. Nikki balances him out."

She wished, she wanted so badly for that to be true. So much so that her throat closed up a little over the surge of wanting, of hope.

He was the one who broke the moment of silence that fell. "So you liked the book?"

She nodded and managed a smile. "I really did. You were right; it is the best Nikki Heat book so far."

He heaved an exaggerated sigh of relief. "Whew. That's a relief because if you didn't like it, it's too late for me to go back and make any more changes." The words were light but the look in his eyes was not and she was reminded, again, that her opinion mattered to him.

So she gave him more. "It was great, Castle. And I think you did Captain Montgomery proud. He would have liked it."

"Thank you, Kate. Coming from you, that means a lot."

The words were simple but she could see just how much he meant them, how much he cared what she thought. It really was time—past time—to tell him what his writing, his books, meant to her.

She tamped down the automatic flutter of fear, the instinctive urge to hide. "Can I… tell you a story?"

A spark kindled in his eyes, a smile tugging at his lips. "Of course. You know my weakness for a good story."

She managed a faint, flicker of a smile. "I don't know how good the story is but I think you should know it."

"To quote Keats, 'my ear is open like a greedy shark, to catch the tunings of a voice divine.'"

She spluttered a laugh, her tension and nervousness abruptly easing. "What? That is awful."

He grinned. "Isn't it? So go on since no story could be as bad as that couplet."

She laughed. And somehow, the laugh was what she needed, gave her the last push to tell this story.

But she couldn't quite meet his eyes as she did so, her sobered gaze fixed on the bookshelf, on the row of her mom's Richard Castle collection. "I told you earlier that my mom read your books."

He sucked in his breath a little and she sensed the abrupt focusing of his attention.

"What I didn't mention is that that's why I started to read your books. After—after my mom died," she went on, her voice not quite steady, "I started to read them and it… made me feel closer to her. I could see why she liked them. It was like I could hear her voice in my head, commenting, saying 'I told you so' to make me admit I'd been wrong all those times I teased her for reading your books." She managed a shaky smile at the confession and glanced at him to see the ghost of a smile flickering across his lips.

He was watching her, his eyes so soft and filled with emotion, and she let his gaze infuse her with more courage to finish with the harder, more personal part of this story, for just a moment before she averted her eyes again, focused on his books on the shelf.

"Your books… I was drowning and they were solid ground. They… showed a world where victims got justice, where the good guys cared and did real investigating to solve murders. Your books showed me what I wanted to do; they... inspired me." He always said she inspired him; it suddenly struck her as oddly fitting that he, his books, had inspired her too. She might have become a cop anyway after what had happened to her mom but his books had certainly played a part.

He sucked in a sharp breath. "Beckett… I don't know what to say." He paused and forced a somewhat wry smile. "You've rendered the writer speechless."

"Then I guess my work here is done," she tried to quip and made a show of pretending to stand up and leave.

He tugged her back with the hand he still held and then abruptly released her hand only to wrap his arm around her shoulders and pull her into a half-hug, briefly hiding his face in her hair.

Kate stiffened for a second and then relaxed against him, into him. Oh. Oh god. They were doing a _lot_ of touching today, she thought rather fuzzily, holding hands and now this… And while they'd touched fairly often before—had held hands (sitting by a poolside after Tyson had escaped or just before he'd pulled the wires out from a dirty bomb) and hugged (in a freezer or just after escaping a fiery death), this—today's touching—was different. This was gratuitous and tender and… and she breathed in the familiar scent of him—when had his scent become familiar to her?—and felt everything inside her seem to soften and melt, warmth pooling inside her. It wasn't lust or desire, not quite, not now; it was just… comfort.

It felt like… home.

She could really get used to this.

But all too soon, he released her, letting her sit up straight, and she did so, even as she found her body rather mourned the loss of his solid warmth against her.

"Kate… thank you," he said simply but his tone made the words eloquent.

"I think that should be my line. Thank you, Castle, for… everything."

"Always."

 _~To be continued…~_

 _A/N 2: For those wondering, there are a few more chapters to go. But I'm afraid there'll be no update next week as I'm going to be travelling. I plan to post the next chapter as soon as I can though so you, at least, won't have to wait a full two weeks for an update but apologies in advance for the longer-than-usual wait until the next chapter._


	13. Chapter 13

A/N 1: Apologies for the long wait but I'm back now so without further ado, I give you the next chapter.

 **The Space Between Us**

 _Chapter 13_

Castle jerked awake, a cry strangled in his throat, as he stared around wildly, disoriented, terrified. His heart was racing, his palms clammy—he half-stumbled, half-fell out of the bed to turn on the light—and felt a tiny measure of his panic recede. His hands weren't bloody.

It wasn't real. Hadn't been real. Had been a nightmare.

He dropped back onto the bed, hanging his head over his knees, as he fought back the lingering shards of terror, pushed the nightmare images out of his mind.

He'd been back in the ambulance, could hear the sirens wailing as the ambulance careened towards the hospital. And Beckett had been so pale, so still, her lips tinged with blue, and she wasn't moving or breathing and he could hear the terrible unbroken steady hum of the cardiac monitor and he couldn't stop the bleeding. No matter what he did, he couldn't stop the bleeding, his hands covered in her blood and then the EMT's voice saying, "she's gone" and her blood was still welling out, covering his hands…

He choked and shuddered, digging his nails into his palms to have the physical sting ground him to the present, keeping his eyes open, unblinking, as he tried to breathe, tried not to remember, tried to calm himself.

It hadn't happened that way. Beckett was alive. She hadn't died. He was at her father's cabin with her.

Oh. That was different.

He lurched to his feet and practically ran down the short distance of the hall to the closed door of Beckett's bedroom, only to stop abruptly, a moment before he might have slammed into it. He lifted one hand to flatten it gently against the surface of the door—her door—the closest thing to her he could touch right now. (He might be pathetic but he'd just dreamed about her dying so he figured that made it less pathetic.) He wasn't going to disturb her, wasn't going to wake her up.

He knew—would never forget—that she had nightmares, panic attacks. The one brought on by the thunderstorm would not have been the only one. So if she was sleeping, he wasn't going to be the one to disturb her precious sleep.

Anyway, he was fine—would be fine.

The unfamiliar surrounds of the cabin, looking oddly different, mysterious, at night (as most places tended to), were somehow reassuring, calming him. The visual evidence that things were different. This was Jim Beckett's cabin. He hadn't even known where it was until last night, until Beckett had texted him the address. He'd spent most of the day here with Beckett. Looking so amazingly alive and healthy and vital that he felt as if he'd spent the better part of the day unable to look away from her, drinking in the sight of her as if the sight of her was water to a parched man. Not that finding it hard to look away from Beckett was anything new to him.

Castle was, by now, beginning to feel more restored to himself, enough to start to feel rather stalker-y for lurking outside of Beckett's bedroom in the middle of the night.

But he couldn't bring himself to move either, didn't want to return to the guest bedroom. Didn't dare go back to sleep, not yet. (He was, by now, familiar enough with the aftermath of the bad nightmares to know that sleep wasn't going to be an option for a while yet.)

Instead, he turned around to slide down the wall until he was sitting on the floor of the hall outside Beckett's bedroom. Rather as if he was guarding her room. As if on cue, he heard her voice that had taken up residence in his head, _What, with your vast arsenal of rapier wit?_ A smile tugged at the corners of his lips at the memory. It was _her_ rapier wit he adored so much.

His smile faded as he remembered seeing her apartment explode the next night. The focus of his nightmares for days afterwards.

Until it had been replaced by the threat of Lockwood, then of a bright sunny day in a cemetery. He twitched involuntarily as he tried to shove the reminder away. No, not again, Beckett was fine now. Or if not fine, alive and healthy again.

He sighed, letting his head rest against her door. He was so tired of this, the nightmares, this whole insomnia thing. He'd thought—hoped—that seeing Beckett again, alive and well, would be the panacea to cure his nightmares but apparently not. At least they weren't happening every night anymore. It had gotten better since he and Beckett had started talking on the phone but they weren't gone. And seeing Beckett, looking miraculously restored to health, wasn't enough.

She did look amazing. Not that Kate Beckett ever looked less than beautiful to him. But his own bias aside, she looked great. Anyone looking at her now who didn't know what she'd gone through would probably not notice a thing.

He noticed, of course, his eyes made sharper by worry and love. She looked almost like what she had before this had started. Almost. But he could see that she had lost weight, her cheekbones standing out a little more starkly thanks to the hollows in her cheeks. And she moved differently. It wasn't that obvious but he'd spent the better part of the last three years watching Kate Beckett and he could see it. She didn't move with the same fluid confidence and unthinking grace of before; she was a little cautious now, her movements careful. She didn't outwardly appear to be in pain—and he guessed that for the most part, she wasn't anymore—but the legacy of those weeks of physical suffering lingered in the caution of her movements. Before, she'd moved with all the confidence of knowing her body was the finely-honed tool that she'd made it, never doubting her physical abilities. Now, she didn't fully trust her body anymore and it showed, at least to him.

And he thought his heart might have broken a little more, again, at the sight. His heart had broken and somewhat paradoxically, he'd felt a stab of… anger, frustration, that he'd thought he'd left behind him weeks ago. Because seeing her now, he could imagine all too well how he could have helped her weeks ago if she'd only let him. (He'd imagined it before but seeing her again made the images that much more vivid, the reality of how much he could have helped her so much more real.)

Castle didn't tend to think of himself in terms of physical strength, brawn; he was a writer after all. The muscle he exercised most frequently and prided himself on most was his brain. But he knew he was strong enough to have carried Beckett, held her up, when she couldn't walk on her own. (Jim had been there for her, of course, but Castle knew Beckett too well to think she would have let Jim help her that much.)

He let out a huff of irritation, curling one hand into a fist and thumping his thigh with it in the gesture of frustration he didn't dare let loose on the floor or the wall lest it make a sound loud enough to disturb Beckett. He didn't want to feel angry at Beckett. He'd thought he was over it, had forgiven her—and for the most part, he had. But apparently some little residual sparks of anger still smoldered.

And he didn't like it, didn't like himself much for feeling it. Beckett was the one who'd been hurt; she was the one suffering the most.

And it wasn't her fault that she didn't need him in order to heal while he—well, he did need her in order to heal. That was just his tragedy. He and Beckett were very different in that respect and he wondered if they would always be so, if they would never find common ground or if they would end up, in spite of everything, as ships passing in the night.

No, they would _not._ He couldn't believe that, refused to believe it. Not only because he was an optimist and a believer in magic and fate—both of which he was sure he'd found in Beckett—but because he was here, now, in her dad's cabin. She had _asked him_ to come. She'd admitted that she needed him. (Okay, fine, said that she thought Nikki needed Rook but he'd understood the subtext loud and clear—and he'd seen in her eyes that she knew he understood.)

And she'd told him… what his books had meant to her mom, to her. Castle let out a shaky breath, feeling the same surge of emotion, a combination of awe and tenderness and humility, as he'd felt when she'd first told him.

His books were that important to her—and just the fact of her telling him that was a sign of how important _he_ was to her. Beckett was not a sharer, as Ryan had so aptly put it more than a year ago. So her sharing something so personal…

His reverie was broken by a muffled sound. He had gotten accustomed to the woodland noises outside but this was different. This was… He sat upright, listening hard, and he heard… something. Something that was like a stifled moan or perhaps a whimper.

Beckett.

He lurched to his feet and managed to open her door almost in the same movement, crossing the room on slightly unsteady legs (since one of his legs had started to cramp from sitting on the floor for so long.)

Her room was dark, of course, but there was just enough moonlight filtering in through her curtains that he could make out the vague shadow of her as she shifted as if in pain, a tiny breath almost a gasp escaping her.

Oh god, Beckett.

He half-collapsed onto his knees beside her bed, putting a careful hand on her shoulder. "Beckett. Kate, wake up. Kate! Wake up, everything's okay."

She startled awake with a sharp gasp, one arm flailing out in an automatic defensive movement and he narrowly managed to duck to avoid being hit in the face.

"Whoa, Kate, it's me. It's okay, it was a nightmare."

Her breath was coming fast and shallow, panting gasps of lingering terror.

 _Oh, Kate…_

At that moment, he decided—knew—that her weeks of silence, her lie, none of it, mattered. Would never matter again as long as she let him help her now. He didn't care about the past; he wanted her present, her future. And he would do whatever it took, whatever she needed, to help her, be there for her.

"Castle?" Her voice was shaky, unlike her.

"Yeah, Kate, it's me. It's okay now."

"I… I don't…" she stuttered, her voice thready and still shaky with lingering disorientation.

"It's okay, Kate," he hurriedly said. "Don't try to talk." He paused, wondering rather wildly what he could do to help. He wanted—desperately—to hold her but he wasn't sure he dared. Not with her lying in her bed. Not when he wasn't sure where the boundaries were between them. He wasn't about to push her.

But then he remembered the call during the thunderstorm last week, the way she'd asked him to keep talking. To distract her, give her something else to think about.

She wasn't asking—but he knew she hated to ask for things. It would take a lot to make her ask. So he could volunteer.

"I could tell you a bedtime story," he offered gently. "I'm an old pro at telling bedtime stories, thanks to Alexis."

She made a strangled sort of noise that might have been something approaching a huff of amusement. It was, at any rate, encouraging.

"I could tell you a Nikki Heat story."

She twitched a little. "No. Tell me… about the stories you used to tell Alexis."

He blinked, surprised. "Okay." He thought for a second. "I could tell you about the adventures of Princess Strawberry-Sparkle."

"Strawberry-Sparkle?" she choked out with something that was almost a laugh.

"Don't mock. Alexis named her."

"Alexis did?"

His heart softened and he felt a wave of something like pride in her because of how she was responding, talking to him, even though her breath was still uneven and he could hear the thread of tension in her voice. But she was trying, fighting it back. Of course she was.

"She was 4."

Now she did huff a brief chuckle, one that he echoed.

"I used to call Alexis my little Strawberry Princess because of the red hair and because she loved strawberries," he explained, his tone becoming reminiscent, his mind filling with memories of tiny Alexis at that age. The happiest years of his life, he thought now, playing with Alexis as she started pre-school and kindergarten, teaching her to read. When she'd been so little and so fun with her precociousness. He shifted and turned so that instead of kneeling on his knees, he was sitting down on the floor by the bed, facing Kate, as he leaned against the bed. "So I invented Princess Strawberry-Sparkle and let Alexis name her and started telling Alexis a series of bedtime stories about her. Princess Strawberry-Sparkle had quite a career of adventures. She solved a mystery about a cake that went missing, intervened in a dispute between some shepherds and farmers, and saved her kingdom from a group of marauding robbers."

"Did she meet a handsome prince who helped her on these adventures?"

"Absolutely not," he responded with exaggerated disapproval. "These were stories I was telling to my little girl and I already knew I didn't want her thinking that girls needed to be saved by boys or any of that nonsense. So while Princess Strawberry-Sparkle had friends, she was always the heroine, the leader. She solved the mysteries and saved her kingdom and generally led her country wisely for a number of years. I made Queen Elizabeth I my model of sorts for Princess Strawberry-Sparkle, ruling her country as well as any man before or since, and made a point of telling Alexis all about Elizabeth I, another brilliant, strong redhead like I wanted Alexis to be."

"That's nice." He smiled. He could hear her smile in her voice. She sounded better, more like herself.

And then she moved her hand, stretching it out towards him, and he took it, gripping it in one of his. They were holding hands. (Again.)

He had to blink and pull his thoughts back to where they'd been. "I… uh… I can tell you the story about the time Princess Strawberry-Sparkle solved the case about the missing farm animals?"

"Okay."

He wasn't entirely sure how well he remembered the story but oh well, he could fill in any gaps as he went along. It wasn't as if Kate was familiar with the original. He made a mental note to check with Alexis later to see if she remembered (and he thought he'd written out a lot of these stories in notebooks at the time. He should check to see if they still existed.) And so he started to tell the story about the animals that had gone missing, the series of disappearances from a farm here and a farm there until Princess Strawberry-Sparkle heard of it and set out to learn the truth. He hadn't (of course) told this story in more than a decade, hadn't even thought about Princess Strawberry-Sparkle in almost that long, but as he recounted it, it occurred to him a little belatedly that Princess Strawberry-Sparkle—her ridiculous name notwithstanding—might be a childish precursor to Nikki Heat, smart, determined, brave.

The mystery wasn't a very involved one, naturally, but it still took him a while in the telling of it and by the time he finished, he felt a ridiculous flare of pride because Kate was smiling, a soft curve of her lips.

"Will you tell—" she broke off abruptly and then continued on with a change of tone he couldn't quite describe, "will you tell me another of her adventures?" He had the odd sense that that wasn't what she'd originally been meaning to ask, suddenly desperately wanted to know what she'd started out to ask. He was somehow sure that it had been significant. More significant than wanting to know another of Princess Strawberry-Sparkle's adventures. But the request still made him smile.

"Of course. I'll tell you the one about how Princess Strawberry-Sparkle set out on a quest to find a special, rare plant that could be used to make a potion to heal a bad illness that was devastating her country."

He cleared his throat and started to tell the story, the hardships and dangers Princess Strawberry-Sparkle encountered on the way, the new friends she made, and then of course her triumphant return.

Beckett was smiling when the story ended; he could just see the pale gleam of her teeth in the darkness, even though he couldn't make out much else of her expression in the dark. "You are a very good dad, Castle. Alexis is a lucky girl."

He felt the usual starburst of warmth inside his chest that he felt whenever Beckett complimented him. "I try and Alexis made it easy."

"Maybe but you're still a good dad."

"Thank you."

There was a moment of silence, which Beckett broke. "I'm sorry for waking you up," she said quietly, her tone entirely serious.

"You didn't," he reassured her quickly. "I was already awake. I'm a writer; I write at all hours of the day or night," he added, trying to inject some lightness into his tone.

"Castle…"

He might not be able to really see her expression but he knew by her tone that she wasn't buying it. He supposed he should have expected that. (There were times he could almost wish she were less perspicacious, didn't know him so well.) He gave a little sigh. "I had a nightmare too," he admitted briefly.

"Oh." Her grip on his hand tightened for a moment. "Are you… okay?"

"I am now." That, at least, was the simple truth. And not just tonight but this entire summer. Just being able to see her was what he needed. She was what he needed.

"Castle?"

"Hmm?"

"Can you… will you stay?"

His breath stuttered in his chest, his lungs forgetting how to work. "I… uh…what?" His brain felt sluggish, stupid, for a moment because he didn't know what she meant. He knew what he wanted her to mean but he was afraid to assume and he didn't want to push and he'd long ago given up any idea that he really knew what Kate Beckett was thinking. And right now, he was cautious, had to be cautious, because he wanted this so much and he was afraid his mind would be creating what he saw, interpreting everything into evidence of what he wanted.

"Stay here, tonight."

"Yes." The word fell out of his lips before his brain even had time to process it. But of course there was nothing to process. At this point, he wasn't sure he could have denied Beckett anything. (Had he ever really been able to deny Beckett anything?)

He pushed himself to his feet, moving a little stiffly. Ugh, he didn't like to admit it but he might be getting too old to be sitting on hard, wooden floors for long periods of time.

She scooted her body over to the wall to make room for him but he hesitated and then abruptly decided, simply lying down on the bed on top of the covers. She might trust him—she clearly did and that was amazing—but he wasn't sure he trusted himself. Not that he thought he actually would… do anything she didn't want (he was fairly sure, injury or no, Beckett was still capable of maiming him) but he wasn't a proponent of self-torture either and he didn't care to put his self-control to the test. Not now, not after missing her so much for so many weeks, not when he was so irrevocably in love with her that just hearing her voice sometimes had his body reacting.

She shifted closer to him and, after a moment, slowly, giving her time to move away if she wanted to, he slid an arm around her shoulders. And then he could have sworn that his heart momentarily stopped beating before it then started to race as her head came to rest against his shoulder. Daringly (or not), he ventured to press a chaste kiss against her hair. There was a slight, almost imperceptible hitch in her breathing but then she didn't react, other than to settle her head more comfortably against his shoulder.

He let out a shaky breath and tried, with limited success, to calm his rioting heart, to say nothing of his body. It was ridiculous to be reacting so strongly anyway. He had, in his misbegotten past, been in much more erotic situations, to be frank; this was almost platonic but this was Kate and that was explanation enough.

She let out a soft sigh and he swore he could feel the warmth of her breath even through the material of his shirt and he felt her relax a little further against him. She was… god, she was all but nestling against him and he decided at that moment that this was everything he needed.

"Castle, thank you… You help…" Her words were barely louder than a breath.

Oh god. He had to swallow hard to get rid of the silly lump in his throat before he could speak. "Always."

She made a barely audible humming sound in the back of her throat, in agreement or pleasure or something, and then it wasn't long before her breaths became soft and even with sleep. And it seemed as if every breath, every minute that passed with the warmth of her body beside him, served to heal the last, lingering gashes on his heart from the days and weeks of her silence, the distance she'd kept between them. Recompense for every nightmare he'd had about her dying and having to wake only to the reality that she wasn't calling him, didn't need him.

They had, he thought, reached common ground, where she could let him help her, let herself rely on him. And he knew his remaining anger at her was extinguished for good. His anger and his occasional, lingering doubts, the insidious whispered voice of his own insecurities, that he, with his past and his faults, could really be enough for her.

Now, with the solid reality of her body beside his, the echo of her words in his ears, he really believed that somehow, in spite of everything (or because of everything), he could be what she needed. Just as he already knew that she was what he needed.

And that was enough. That was everything.

* * *

Kate snuck glances at Castle as he stood at the sink washing the dishes from their breakfast and their lunch, a little enthralled at this domesticity in him. She had seen glimpses of it before, in the days she'd spent at the loft last year after her apartment had exploded, but it was different to see him here, in her family's cabin, doing something like washing the dishes. She was wiping down the table and the counter as they had, somewhat surprisingly, managed to find a way to work together even in this sort of setting, miles removed from the precinct.

Castle was humming rather tunelessly as he worked, and she couldn't help a small smile. It shouldn't surprise her that he didn't seem to like complete silence and needed to fill it, even with something as low-key and quiet as his humming that was soft enough it barely even qualified as background noise.

And okay, maybe part of her inability to look away from him for long was just him, the strength of his arms. He was wearing another t-shirt today (one with Captain America's shield on it) and she didn't think she'd ever get tired of the way the material stretched around his biceps, the play of muscles of his lower arms. And her gaze kept getting snared by the dexterity of his hands as he handled the dishes. She was used to him acting somewhat clumsy and of course, he could be, but right now, he was the last thing from clumsy, his hands deft and sure. And it was… hot. Because she could imagine how dexterous he might be handling… other things like, say, her…

At that rather inopportune moment (or fortunately for her own composure), she was distracted, the moment broken, at the sound of a knock on the door, making her startle and tense a little.

Castle turned halfway around to cast her a curious look and she met it with a shrug to indicate she didn't know who it was. She hadn't heard a car.

She felt her heart start to trip in her chest but tried not to over-react—she was being ridiculous—as she crossed the room to the door, looking through the peep-hole. "Who is it?"

"Knock knock, Katie, it's just us," she heard through the door and then her view through the peephole confirmed that it was the Nealans, who must have walked over from their house.

Kate smiled and glanced back at Castle, who had paused in his dish-washing to dry his hands. "It's our neighbors, friends of my dad's," she explained quickly before she opened the door. "Hi."

Peter and Nancy Nealan bustled in, each taking turns in wrapping Kate in a hug, with Nancy pausing with her hands on Kate's shoulders to give Kate an appraising look. She clicked her tongue a little. "Mm, Katie, you're still looking thin. Haven't you been eating properly?" she asked in motherly fashion.

Kate laughed softly. "I've been eating, I promise, and I've started to gain back the weight I lost."

"We wanted to see how you were doing since Jim had to go back to the city but I see we shouldn't have worried," Peter spoke up.

Kate stepped back and gestured towards Castle. "Oh, sorry, this is Rick Castle, my… friend. Castle, this is Peter and Nancy Nealan. They've known me for years." Calling Castle her friend seemed awkward, although it was literally true, but calling him her partner had connotations and the Nealans had never seen her as a cop (because to them, she would always remain, in some ways, the little girl they'd first met so many years ago.)

Peter stepped forward to shake Castle's hand. "So you're Katie's writer. It's nice to meet you."

Kate felt herself flush. Katie's writer. But he really was, wasn't he? They both knew it, even if they hadn't specifically said it.

Castle laughed a little. "I guess I am. It's always a pleasure to meet some of Kate's old friends."

"We've heard a lot about you from Jim and from Katie so it's nice to put a face to the name," Nancy agreed, shaking Castle's hand in turn. "And I'm usually not one for reading mysteries but I did read the books you wrote about Katie. When Jim mentioned that Katie was the inspiration for some books, I knew I had to read them."

"Thank you, I appreciate that."

"She didn't say she liked them," Peter joked.

Castle gaped a little, rather at a loss (adorably), but Kate and Nancy only laughed, while Nancy flapped a dismissive hand at her husband. "Don't mind him, Rick; he's always talking nonsense. Your books were quite enjoyable."

Castle relaxed enough to smile. "Thank you."

"We're about to head into town and we thought we'd stop by to see if we could get anything for you and check how you're managing on your own now that Jim's gone back to the city but I see we don't need to worry about that," Peter added.

Kate laughed a little, trying not to blush under his knowing look. "That's nice of you but I'm fine and yeah, Castle came out yesterday to help."

"That's good. I don't mind admitting that I, at least, was a little worried about you being left on your own, Katie," Nancy chimed in. "I know you're a grown-up now but you're recovering from such a serious injury, I didn't like to think of you being alone even if you are so much better."

"My dad felt the same way," Kate admitted, "so he feels a lot better knowing Castle's out here."

"I'm sure he does," Peter said.

Peter and Nancy lingered for another few minutes, chatting. It was, Kate thought, probably the most social she'd been all summer, and she felt a little pang. They left after extracting a promise that Kate (and Castle, assuming he was still here) come over for dinner some time before Kate went back to the city, and more reassurances that if Kate needed anything, they were just down the road and happy to help.

Kate waved them off as they walked down the driveway and then closed the door.

"I like them," Castle volunteered as she did so. "They seem like good people, who clearly care about you, and I'm glad that you had people like that to help you this summer, as well as your dad."

Wait. Confusion and something like remorse caught at her throat. Did he think—there was no reproach, no undertones to his voice; he meant what he said—but did he think that even as she'd hid herself away from him, she'd somehow let other people, like Peter and Nancy, help her? She suddenly heard his bitter voice in her head from weeks ago, _Josh helping you with that?_ It might be—was—different because Peter and Nancy were family friends and they'd known her since she was a kid but oh, Castle… She didn't want him to think that, that she'd kept her distance from him in particular because of what he'd said, the added complication to their relationship. That he was somehow the exception while she let others help her.

"They didn't, you know," she blurted out.

He blinked and frowned. "Didn't what?"

"They didn't help me this summer. Not because they didn't want to," she added, in fairness to them, "but I didn't let them, didn't let them see me. This entire summer, I've only seen them twice before today." And one of those times, much earlier this summer, they'd really only glimpsed her for a minute or so as she'd made her slow, painful way back to her bedroom from the bathroom at a time when they had stopped by for a visit.

"Oh. I didn't… I assumed…"

"I think they've helped my dad though; he went over to their house a few times when the cabin was getting a little too small for both of us, gave me more space, and I think they were the ones to listen when my dad worried over me."

"That's good," Castle said, rather lamely.

"Castle."

Her tone was firm enough that it made him look up, meet her eyes.

"Yeah?"

"Do you know how many people I've let help me this summer?"

He frowned a little. "No."

She let out a careful breath. This might not be the hardest thing she had to admit but it wasn't the easiest either. She didn't like talking about her weaknesses, her failings. But he needed to know, to understand, once and for all. "Two. My dad and you."

He sucked in his breath but didn't say anything.

"I've talked to Lanie on the phone twice all summer, Castle, and both of those times have been in the last couple weeks. She was almost as mad at me as you were at first," she added with a small, wry twist of her lips. "I've sent Espo and Ryan just one text message all summer," she added. That, in response to 3 text messages from Ryan and 2 from Espo, which was rather amazing since neither of them was much given to texting and rarely did so for anything except work. They certainly never sent text messages just to see how she was—at least, they hadn't before and even this summer, their texts had been veiled behind the usual cop-speak, no outright expressions of concern.

"Oh."

"I know… I've hurt you this summer," she admitted, her voice not as steady as she would have liked it to be, "and I'm so sorry and I… don't know if this makes a difference but Castle, it wasn't just you. I… I've hidden from everyone except for my dad—and if I could have, I'd probably have hidden from him too," she admitted with a rueful wince.

"Kate, I wasn't trying to… I understand, I forgave you, remember?"

He always did where she was concerned, didn't he, with his kind heart, the boundlessness of his love.

"I know. I just… I'm not good at this, at letting people in, letting people help me. I told you once that I don't really let on what's on my mind."

His expression changed, softened, in a way she couldn't really describe at the reference to that (terrible) conversation in the precinct, knew he was remembering, too, what she'd admitted so recently, that she'd wanted to go with him to the Hamptons even then. Wanted to give their relationship a try even back then. That hadn't been easy but oddly, somewhat paradoxically, it occurred to her that it might have been… easier last year to start a relationship with him. Not because of her shooting but because… she hadn't really been in love with him then.

She didn't doubt that she would have fallen in love with him (at this point, she couldn't imagine not falling in love with Castle, no matter the circumstances) but back then, when she'd only just started to open herself up to the idea of a real relationship with him, it had been easier. She'd been less vulnerable. Now—well, now, when she was thinking in terms of forever and spinning fantasies about their future children (and barely escaping asking him outright last night if he would tell the stories about Princess Strawberry-Sparkle to their own daughter one day) and living with him until their skin was wrinkled and paper-thin… Now, their relationship meant everything; _he_ meant everything and that was frankly terrifying. She'd lost the most important person in her young life before and that had almost wrecked her; now, she was terrifyingly sure that if she lost Castle too, she'd never ever get over it.

She let out a breath, let the steady, reassuring warmth of his eyes ground her. He had promised always, hadn't he?

"Castle, I just… I didn't want anyone to see me this summer. But you… you are… my best friend and—this summer, our phone calls—you've been the best part of this summer." She belatedly realized that her words could have sounded like another way to keep distance between them, the still-friends-but-nothing-more speech, but she could see from the look in his eyes that he understood, that he hadn't taken it in such a way. Not after everything they'd already said.

He let out a breath. "God, Kate, I… you're my best friend too."

Now, finally, a smile curved her lips. She wasn't even sure why it meant so much to hear that she was his best friend, as much (almost) as hearing that he loved her, except maybe because it was a reminder of how different this was from any other relationship she'd ever had. They had physical attraction and lust (god, yes) and affection and love but with all that, they were, still, friends too and that mattered.

"Okay then," she murmured meaninglessly.

There was a brief pause in which he returned to the sink to finish up the dish-washing that had been interrupted by the Nealans' arrival.

"So Peter called me 'Katie's writer,'" he commented, throwing a teasing smirk at her. "Is that what your family friends know me as?"

She laughed a little. "I guess so. You got a problem with that?"

He pretended to think about it for long enough that she huffed and threw a dishcloth at him, hitting his face and landing on his arm rather than in the sink.

He laughed. "Okay, well, if you're a one-writer girl, then I guess I can be a one-muse writer from now on."

She smiled. He was her writer and she was his muse… Oh, who was she kidding, she was just… his. His Beckett—no, his Kate. "It's a deal."

 _~To be continued…~_

 _A/N 2: Two chapters to go… Thank you, everyone, for reading and reviewing._


	14. Chapter 14

Author's Note: This chapter is one I've been planning for a while. I only hope it turned out okay.

 **The Space Between Us**

 _Chapter 14_

Over the next few days, they settled into easy co-existence (cohabitation?) in the cabin. They didn't have any more serious conversations, just let the days slip by, once more accustoming themselves to the other's near-constant companionship.

It was, surprisingly, amazingly really, comfortable. Kate was rather pleasantly surprised at Castle's ability to refrain from talking, give her spaces of time in which to be quiet, and less surprised to experience first-hand just how good of a cook he actually was.

And after that first night, she was even able to sleep at night for the most part. She tucked away the little twinge of something like disappointment that he apparently was able to sleep too, or at least, didn't venture into her bedroom again because sleeping curled up beside him had given her the best night's sleep she'd had in months but she didn't have the nerve to mention it again.

All in all, it was peaceful, pleasant, fun. It gave her hope, like a sneak preview into the future she wanted them to have, showed her that a life with him could really work.

It felt like an interlude, a space out of time and away from the real world, as if they were ensconced in their own little amniotic bubble, the cabin and the woods around it becoming a sort of cocoon. Helped by the fact that, aside from the Nealans' brief visit a couple days ago, Castle's nightly phone calls with Alexis, and her own calls with her dad, they didn't interact with anyone else in those days. It was just the two of them.

But Kate was aware—very aware—that he was still waiting and she was waiting too. It wasn't talked about but there were moments when she would catch him looking at her, moments when their eyes would meet and her lungs would suddenly forget how to work as the mesmeric attraction that always seemed to exist between them and only seemed to have gotten more intense over time flared up.

But they didn't talk about it. Partly because it was, as it always had been, easier to let their relationship float along on a sea of teasing and laughter, partly because she was still waiting to be ready to take the last step to a real relationship, to admit everything, show him her scars, both the physical ones and the emotional ones.

And she wasn't ready. The day before, as they'd been walking, he had not-quite-absently slid an arm around her waist (he'd put his arm around her shoulders a couple times) and his large, warm hand had inadvertently landed right on top of the incision scar on her side and she'd stiffened before she'd even realized it. And he'd felt it, his hand dropping immediately, and she'd glanced at him to see something she couldn't read flicker across his eyes, not quite hurt, maybe edging closer to confusion.

She inwardly flinched. She knew she was probably sending out mixed signals. She wasn't even sure why she was still so hung up over her scars, knew it was stupid and irrational and maybe even vain to care so much about them, and she didn't know how to mention it to him without sounding silly and shallow or, worse, making it sound as if she thought he was that shallow to care about her scars (she didn't, she really didn't).

"I was just surprised," she offered rather lamely and he nodded but didn't otherwise respond and she wondered if it was so obvious that she wasn't exactly telling him the complete truth. But then he managed a smile and cracked a joke and somehow the moment passed and they were still waiting.

She wasn't sure how long their pleasant interlude in the cabin would last but then, the real world intruded—or was forced to intrude in a sense—because they needed to go grocery shopping. (God, would she ever get over the surreality of engaging in such domestic tasks with Castle?) With two of them eating, the perishable foods had run low and perhaps more importantly, since it was them, the cabin's stock of coffee had been depleted significantly too, although for once, Castle was drinking more coffee than she was, since she was still ramping up to the levels she'd been at before her shooting. And Castle chimed in to claim that he was on withdrawal from ice cream since he hadn't had any for a week and that was unacceptable.

She laughed at him. "Okay, fine, Castle, let's go grocery shopping."

His silliness over his need for ice cream distracted her so it wasn't until they were heading out of the cabin that it occurred to her that this would be her first real time venturing out into town. She'd only accompanied her dad once on his trips into town and when they'd just arrived in town, a siren had split the air and she hadn't been able to keep from crying out sharply and her dad had taken one look at her, gasping for breath in the front seat, and turned the car right around. She hadn't left the cabin since. She'd been… hiding, avoiding the rest of the world.

The town might be a small one but it was a public place, not a controlled environment, too much exposure, too many things and people and potential for unexpected noises. Oh god. She felt a flare of nerves rioting in her stomach at the thought but forcibly tamped them down. It was ridiculous, so stupid, and if she was going to chicken out from even a trip into town to go grocery shopping, she'd never be able to return to work. She didn't want—refused to be so pathetic that she couldn't even go grocery shopping.

She could do this. She had to do this. Had to start somewhere in easing back into the real world.

And she would have Castle beside her, to distract her.

She'd be fine, she told herself. She knew the town, had been visiting it almost every summer since she'd been little. There was nothing threatening about it. Nothing to worry about.

But for all her vaunted bravado, she gestured for Castle to drive, making him gape at her in comical (and exaggerated) disbelief. "You're letting me drive?" He looked around wildly and made a show of pinching his arm. "I don't see any pigs flying."

She narrowed her eyes at him but couldn't quite hide her smile. "Shut up, Castle. You drove when we were in LA and it is your car, after all."

"Well, yeah, but I don't even know exactly where we're going."

"I'll navigate so for once in your life, just follow my directions and go where I tell you to go."

"Haha, Beckett, it's really tragic to see a sense of humor so misapplied," he pretended to lament.

"Oh, like your attempts at humor are always sterling."

"I'm funny!" he huffed in mock outrage. "Ask anyone! I'm renowned for my humor and my wit."

She snorted and found herself relaxing a little, distracted, as always, by their banter. See, she could do this. She'd be fine.

They made it to town still teasing each other and that was almost enough to keep her from tensing too much, her eyes from constantly looking around, hyper-vigilance starting to set in. But she was fine, still. She could handle this. And fortunately, Castle seemed distracted enough by having to drive and follow her navigation instructions not to have noticed so they made it to the grocery store without incident.

Kate tried to focus on breathing through her nose, in and out, as she opened the car door and stepped outside, tried very hard not to feel suddenly exposed, vulnerable, a target painted on her. This was a safe place. No one was going to attack her, hurt her, not here, not now. She was fine.

But she couldn't keep from glancing around wildly, her eyes flickering over and around, noting every passerby, the stores across the street, glancing at the rooftops—and damn it, why must parking lots be so open? Nowhere to hide except for the cars.

A sharp crack of sound sliced across her nerves and she jumped, startled like a frightened deer, only to belatedly realize it had been from someone slamming a car door shut.

See? Fine. Nothing to fear.

"Beckett?"

She jerked her head to look at Castle, his eyes squinted against the sun emerging from behind a patch of clouds, a quizzical little smile on his face, as he held out a hand. Castle. She'd be fine.

She breathed again and forced a small smile. "Yeah, let's go." And was proud of herself for sounding so normal as she uprooted her feet and fell into step beside him, conscious of his hand resting lightly against her back for a few moments.

Castle was babbling, listing out loud the various food items they should buy. She let the sound of his voice wash over her, a comforting stream of nonsense (no way were they going to buy even half of what he listed.)

She was fine.

Anyway, inside the grocery store would be better, less open, right?

Not exactly. Kate made it only a handful of steps inside the store before having to stop because she was getting overwhelmed and it was just so damn stupid but it was loud inside, the sound of shopping carts rattling, people talking. A woman reached inside her purse and Kate tensed, half-expecting a weapon, and had to forcibly unlock her muscles when a wallet emerged instead. (Stupid. She knew it but it wasn't helping.) A man passed right behind her and she startled since she hadn't seen him coming and it made her abruptly conscious that there was no wall at her back, she was unprotected. And then a sharp crack—someone had dropped a can on the ground—and Kate let out a sharp gasp, flinching, waiting for the impact of Castle slamming into her, the hot burn of the bullet.

Oh god. Shit.

She needed to get out of there. She could feel concerned glances from people and she needed to get away, hide.

She turned only to be confronted by the flash of sunlight glinting off cars, the store door, and she was vaguely aware of hearing her breathing, loud and shallow, her heart thundering in her ears.

Outside, it was, thankfully, quieter but again, too bright, too open, and she half-stumbled, half-fled across the parking lot to Castle's car, shelter, crouching beside it, as she tried desperately to remember how to breathe. Tried to remember that she wasn't in the cemetery dying, there was no danger here.

"Miss? Miss, are you okay? Can I help you?"

A stranger's voice. She flinched again. No, no, couldn't speak, couldn't trust. Her vision was going gray around the edges but she saw a pair of legs, encased in blue jeans. "Miss?"

 _No, no, go away._ She curled up tighter around herself.

"Kate!"

A familiar voice this time. He would help. She let out another small gasp, of relief this time.

"Is she having a heart attack or something? Should I call 9-1-1?"

"No, no, thank you. I've got this. I'm her partner. I can take care of this. Thank you."

"All right. I hope she's okay." The stranger left.

"Kate? It's okay, Kate, I'm right here."

Castle. He was here, hunkering down on his knees in front of her. A little flicker of relief, of ease, sparked inside her. He would help, would make things better. His hand gripped her arm gently and she let herself lean forward—fall forward—until she rested against him, her face buried in the curve where his neck met his shoulder. _Oh, Castle…_ A little shudder of relief went through her and after a moment, it was like her lungs remembered how to function, managed to take a breath without choking or gasping.

One arm curled around her and then she was vaguely aware of his other arm reaching past her and then the car door was opening.

His voice sounded close to her ear, gentle. "Here, Kate, sit down. It'll be easier. I'll be right here."

Both his hands gripped her arms, nudging, and moving stiffly, she managed to uncurl her body just enough to sit down on the seat sideways, her legs still hanging out of the car. And she finally looked up to see his face, his expression tight with worry, his blue eyes clouded with concern. She hadn't seen him look so fearful since… since the cemetery, as he held her bleeding body. Her breath stuttered in her chest.

"Castle," she managed to gasp.

"Yeah, Kate, I'm right here, not going anywhere. You're going to be okay, Kate. Just take a few minutes. You've got this."

She listened, focused on his face, his eyes, the solid warmth of his hands resting on her knees keeping her tethered to reality. It was… easier... with him there. She wasn't sure how long it took but slowly, gradually, her breaths came easier, smoother, her heart rate slowing, as she became aware of their surroundings, the sound of cars driving past, snatches of conversation from passersby, the sound of birds.

And with her grasp of reality came the return of self-consciousness, shame at the knowledge that she'd had a panic attack and fled because she couldn't face something as mundane as the noises in a grocery store. And now he knew, had seen it all.

And she called herself a cop. Nikki Heat would never do this, the inane thought flitted through her mind.

"Castle, I—I'm sorry. I… didn't want you to see me like this," she managed to grit out, her eyes falling before his steady gaze. Afraid now to look at him, afraid she would see pity at her weakness.

"Ssh, Kate, you have nothing to be sorry for."

Her breath hitched on something that was almost a sob, more a sound of disagreement. "It's so… pathetic…"

"You, Kate Beckett, are a lot of things but pathetic is not one of them. You might be the most maddening, frustrating person I've ever met—"

She huffed a wobbly attempt at a laugh and managed to steel herself enough to lift her eyes to his face again. His eyes were soft and warm but there was no pity in them, only… her heartbeat stuttered a little… love.

"But you're also the most remarkable and the strongest person I know. What you're going through now doesn't change that. All it says is that you're still healing. I know you think you should be able to leap tall buildings in a single bound but it's okay to be human once in awhile. It helps the rest of us mere mortals feel less inadequate," he added with a faint smile.

She managed a twitch of her lips, nudging his arm for that piece of silliness.

He sobered, meeting her eyes. "Look, Beckett, I've had days where the sun was too bright, where a flash of light caught my eye in the wrong way. I think I prefer overcast days to sunny ones now," he digressed. "There've been days where I flinch at loud, unexpected noises and I have nightmares and can't go back to sleep afterwards."

She forgot all about herself as she listened. She'd had no idea Castle was going through any of this, except for the nightmare part. She was, not for the first time, shamed at the realization of how little she'd really tried to imagine or learn how her shooting had affected him. She thought of him as the strong one, she suddenly thought. She was the one who was broken but he—he was the one who helped her keep it together.

"And you know what I did that helped?"

She shook her head wordlessly.

"I thought about you. I went over my favorite memories of you and then I started thinking about our phone calls, remembering all the things you told me that I'd never known before. It reminded me you were still there. And now…" He paused and gave her one of those looks, the ones that never failed to make her momentarily forget how to breathe, the one that said that he loved her even if he wasn't saying it. "Now, I open my eyes and look at you."

Oh, this man and his words. Oh god, his words… Ridiculously, she heard his voice in her mind telling her _Rook needs Nikki too_. He needed her. She didn't know how, she didn't deserve it, but somehow, he really did need her too. Maybe even almost as much as she needed him.

"And if there's anything I can do, as long as you want me to stay with you, I'll be here."

 _Forever_ , she wanted him to stay forever. The word rang through her mind but got caught in her throat.

"Okay, I'll keep that in mind," she said instead, hating her own hamstrung tongue.

The corners of his eyes crinkled in a faint smile. "You will get better. You're Detective Kate Beckett, NYPD, and if there's one thing I've learned over these past couple years of shadowing you, it's never to bet against Kate Beckett, okay?"

She managed a small smile, something tugging inside her at the use of her title. It sounded almost… strange to her own ears. Stupid but maybe it was only because it had been so many months since anyone had called her Detective. "Okay, thanks, Castle."

"Good." He paused. "Now, do you think you can manage so we can get some food now?" He accompanied the question with a ridiculously over-the-top pleading expression that would not have looked out of place on Oliver Twist asking for some more.

She couldn't help but smile, a tiny tendril of amusement sprouting up inside her. And as usual, somehow, the tug to her humor seemed to infuse her with some strength, made her feel more herself. "Okay, let's go get some food."

"Great." He leaned forward to dust his lips against her forehead in a chaste kiss that still had warmth bubbling up inside her before pushing himself to his feet and grasping her hand to half-pull her up. Afterwards, he retained his grip on her hand. And she let him—or not let him so much as held onto him too. Held onto him as if he were what would anchor her to sanity.

With his other hand, he locked the car again and then fell into step beside her as they returned to the grocery store.

She felt some tension, nervousness, coiling inside her as they entered the store though she tried to tamp it down—she could do this, really.

"So, do you want to push the shopping card or should I?" he asked lightly.

His tone and his expression made it easier to slip into their usual banter, barely having to try to manufacture a teasing smirk. "I'm surprised, Castle. No suggestion we have a shopping cart race?"

He spread a hand on his chest in a gesture of histrionic affront. "Me? Would I suggest something so immature? I'll have you know that I outgrew shopping cart races years ago." He tilted his head to one side in a parody of thoughtfulness, making a show of counting on his fingers. "Alexis stopped letting me race shopping carts at least 8 years ago."

Laughter bubbled up inside her, surprising even herself. To be laughing outright when only minutes ago, she'd been hyperventilating outside in the parking lot—she would never have expected it. But then again, she was with Castle and that was what he did. He made her laugh. He made her stronger.

"I can push the shopping cart," was all she said, though.

"So, fresh produce first and then up and down every aisle in order?"

She raised her eyebrows at him. "That is surprisingly methodical of you, Castle." She would have expected he'd be the sort to wander at random throughout the store as he thought of various items, taking forever as he backtracked and detoured.

He pretended to preen. "Alexis trained me early on."

She smiled again.

"Ready for your first excursion into grocery shopping with me, Beckett?" His tone was deliberately provocative.

"I think I can manage."

"Oh, you have no idea," he warned, his eyebrows waggling at her.

Within five minutes, she decided he was right. She'd had no idea.

It was rather like going grocery shopping with a hyperactive child. A hyperactive child who made a point of trying to sneak things into the cart whenever she turned away. A hyperactive child with expensive tastes.

He insisted on buying organic produce whenever it was available. When it wasn't, he left her to select the produce while he wandered away along the same aisle (although he never went out of sight), returning with yet more goods.

"Castle, we do not need to get this much."

"If we don't finish it, I'll just bring it back to the loft with me."

They went back and forth a couple times before she gave up. He was persistent, she'd give him that.

What had he called her? The most maddening, frustrating person he'd ever met. Yeah, that sounded like a pretty accurate description of him too.

He returned from his wanderings and viewed her latest addition to the cart. "Beckett, is that—kale?!" His tone and his expression made it seem as if she'd suggested they eat a live tarantula.

"It's healthy."

"It tastes like pond scum."

"Not if you cook it right," she returned airily.

"Can't change the taste. Ooh, I know, you must have burned off your taste buds with the way you guzzle down scalding hot coffee!"

She shot him a look. "Don't be ridiculous, Castle."

And on and on, it went.

She placed a decent and decently-priced bottle of Merlot in the cart. He promptly removed it and replaced it with the most expensive bottle of Merlot in the store and then made a point of sticking his fingers in his ears when she tried to remonstrate with him. (They did, at least, manage to agree on coffee, the only specialty kind in the store.)

He was driving her crazy.

And at the same time, she'd never imagined that a chore as quotidian as grocery shopping could be so… fun.

In the cereal aisle, she went for Special K (he made a face) and he picked out Lucky Charms (she rolled her eyes).

"What are you, a five-year-old?"

"They're good," he huffed. "And since you're the one who wants to eat kale, I don't think you have any claim to superiority in taste."

She scoffed and turned away.

By the time they reached the frozen food aisle and the ice cream section, she was prepared. She suggested strawberry; he wanted Rocky Road or failing that, Ben and Jerry's Chunky Monkey. With toppings, of course. She suggested a compromise of mint chocolate chip, which she knew he would eat since she'd seen a carton of it in the freezer of the loft when she'd stayed there last year. He ignored her compromise and instead bought both strawberry and Rocky Road and threw in a carton of Chunky Monkey too.

"This is to make up for the healthiness of the kale, isn't it?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," he returned with a look of saintly innocence.

She rolled her eyes again.

Predictably, they went back and forth over who would pay for the groceries, with him pointing out that more than half the stuff in the cart was what he'd picked. And her retorting that it was only because he'd insisted on buying unnecessary and excessive amounts of things.

"You are impossible."

"I know you are but what am I?" he shot back. She hadn't heard that line since middle school. He really was a five-year-old, wasn't he?

"You are such a _child_."

"I'll have you know, Beckett, that I'm immune to that look," was his airy response.

"What look?"

"That 'how do I put up with you' look. Alexis gives it to me a lot so I developed an immunity."

"Clearly Alexis must have the patience of a saint because she hasn't strangled you yet."

"Alexis likes me. I'm the cool dad," he huffed in mock superiority. "And I am going to pay so you might as well save your breath. Consider it part of your share of the Nikki Heat royalties."

She snorted. "Paying for my groceries is my share of the Nikki Heat royalties?" Not that she wanted any of the Nikki Heat royalties but it was the principle of the thing and really, it was a ridiculous argument.

"They're my groceries too, Beckett."

She threw up her hands because they'd reached the register and this sort of bickering in front of the cashier was undignified and she, at least, was an adult. "Oh fine, do what you like, you always do anyway."

"Ha, victory is mine!"

How was she in love with this juvenile man-child? (And damn it, she was not thinking that he was kind of cute in his smug triumph. Not at all.)

She huffed and started to help bag the groceries but after a moment, couldn't help but glance at him to see him hastily withdrawing his gaze, catching a flicker of… oh… concern cross his face.

Oh this _man_. She abruptly understood what he'd been doing, that he'd been playing up his childish behavior while they'd been shopping to keep her distracted.

And it had worked.

When she was rolling her eyes at him, reacting to his provocations, she wasn't braced for the next unexpected noise, wasn't fretting over her possible over-reaction to stimuli. It wasn't that the grocery store had become significantly quieter or emptier than it had been before; the difference was that she hadn't been as keyed up and aware of everything because she'd been focused on Castle. Irritation and amusement over his antics had edged out her nervousness.

How could she not love this man, who did whatever he could to make her life easier, who understood her well enough to know when sympathy or concerned hovering wasn't what she needed and then set out to distract her?

She helped finish bagging their groceries as he pocketed his wallet once again and then he fell into step beside her to help push the cart. She focused on his hand on the cart handle, his large, strong hand. The hands that had shot Scott Dunn to save her life, hands that had held her bleeding body in the cemetery, hands that were so careful now when they touched her. After a second, she slid her hand over to cover his.

She saw the almost imperceptible pause as his steps momentarily fell out of rhythm before he found it again, staying at her side, as always.

She glanced at him to see that he was also looking at her, met his eyes, so bright and so blue.

Her heart stuttered in her chest. This man had seen her at her worst, at her weakest, and yet he still looked at her as if she was extraordinary.

And she knew what she needed to do. She smiled, warmth—and certainty—settling in her chest. "Come on, Castle, let's get these groceries home."

 _~To be continued…~_

 _A/N 2: I admit to really getting a kick out of fics that include Castle and Beckett going grocery shopping together (that sounds weirder than I meant it but in my defense, it's because the scenes are usually hilarious) so I decided to try my hand at writing it._

 _Just one more chapter to go. Thank you, everyone, for reading and reviewing._


	15. Chapter 15

A/N 1: This chapter nearly gave me fits in the writing of it so I hope it satisfies! Earning the T rating in this…

 **The Space Between Us**

 _Chapter 15_

Deciding what she needed to do wasn't the same as actually doing it.

Her heart was hammering in her chest, her nerves starting to riot, and she knew it was, at least partly, out of nervousness. And some anticipation too.

Castle had taken over putting the rest of the groceries away as it involved reaching up to the cabinets which she still couldn't comfortably do. So she'd been relegated to watching. Which was fine too. Because the view of his butt and the strip of skin visible where his t-shirt had risen as he lifted his arms was… very nice.

So it was possible (probable?) that her intentions were not as pure anymore as they'd started out as being. That was okay, right?

She wanted this. Wanted him. (Well, that had been true for a lot longer than she'd been willing to admit to herself.)

It was not exactly the way she would have imagined their first time but her imaginings, fantasies, had never included having scars.

This was what she needed to do. The last real barrier between them. And she was, she decided, so tired of being afraid, tired of shying away from him, from them.

She might be—she was—still nervous but sometimes, it was necessary to just rip off the bandage quickly rather than slowly.

"Okay, groceries all put away. What do you want to do now? Beckett?"

She'd gotten distracted. He'd finished and turned around and now was eyeing her with some concern and she wondered what he saw in her expression.

"Castle?"

Now he was looking a little nervous. "Yeah?"

"I was thinking… I want to show you something." Want was putting it a little strongly; she still didn't want him to see this but she was tired of putting it off too.

"Okay…"

She turned and retreated into her bedroom, knowing even without seeing that he would follow her.

She stopped beside her bed and turned to face him.

He'd stopped just inside the door, uncertainty and confusion flickering across his face. "What did you want to show me?"

She set her jaw. It was time. "This." She gripped the hem of her t-shirt and pulled it up, baring her stomach, the scar along her side. Her breath was coming too fast but it was time.

He made a choking sound and then shut his eyes, one hand flying up to cover his eyes for good measure. "Kate, what are you doing?"

She felt another flare of nerves. "I didn't think you'd be the one to stop me from taking my shirt off," she tried to joke.

"Kate." For once in his life, he didn't respond to humor. "I said I wasn't going to push and I'm not. I haven't. I don't—we can wait. I can wait."

Oddly, his reluctance, his obvious hesitation, eased her tension. This was Castle and she trusted him. "I know." She took advantage of his still-covered eyes to tug her shirt over her head and off, discarding it, leaving her bared to the waist except for her plain bra. She could do this. These disfiguring marks on her skin were the last thing she was hiding.

She glanced down, her gaze focusing on the small round puckered scar between her breasts. It was, at least, no longer an angry red, the color fading to pink, but she still hated it, felt the little reactive shudder go through her at the sight. She felt the phantom burning pain in her chest, her breathing becoming shallow again, her hand automatically coming up to cover it before she forced it down. It was ugly, it was so ugly, but she'd promised herself she'd show him.

She let out a shaky breath. "I… I didn't want you to see me like this," she managed to force out, again.

"I'm not. I won't," he croaked and she looked up to see that he was still covering his eyes. She felt a flicker of warmth in her chest, reassurance.

"No, Castle, I meant that I didn't want you to see me like this before but I don't want to hide from you anymore. You can look, Castle."

He made another strangled sound. "Kate, are you… sure? I'm not—you don't have to…"

"Open your eyes, Castle."

He did, letting his hand fall.

His eyes widened, his gaze avid, as he stared and she felt herself flush at the look of awe mingled in with the flare of lust he didn't try to conceal. And then she abruptly realized that he hadn't even noticed her scars at first—she didn't know how since her scars were all she could see when she looked at herself now—but he didn't, because his expression abruptly froze, his entire body seeming to tense. Now he'd seen, noticed. Now he understood what she'd meant to show him.

He looked stunned, grieved, and it suddenly occurred to her to wonder if he'd realized that she had scars from her shooting, her surgery. From the look on his face, he might not have thought about it, might not have fully realized that she would be permanently marked by what had happened. The bullet that had killed her, the surgery that had brought her back to life.

"Kate… Oh god, Kate…" he finally breathed, his voice shaking slightly.

She took a breath, steeling herself. "It's okay, Castle. I—I know it's ugly but it doesn't hurt anymore." It was mostly true. She was relatively sure that the hard knot of pain she still sometimes felt in her chest was mostly a phantom one.

He abruptly looked stricken and she winced and rushed on, trying to explain. "This is why I wanted to be better. I thought—I wanted not to be… broken. I—I didn't want you to see me like that, wanted to be better, stronger than that, for you. Didn't want you to have to… care about someone who was so damaged."

He choked and took an involuntary step toward her. "Kate, no, stop." His hand lifted as if to touch her but then it paused and then retreated. Cautious—he was still, even now, being so cautious with her, trying not to push, overstep the boundaries. She didn't want his caution, didn't want there to be any walls, any space, between them. And before she could think better of it, she grabbed his hand and placed it on her torso so the tips of his fingers covered up the scar, warming up her skin.

She had the feeling they were both distracted for a moment, staring at his hand on her, so close to her breasts. She certainly was.

But then he blinked and managed to drag his eyes up to meet hers, his expression sober. "Kate, you're not damaged, you're beautiful. And you don't have to be anything other than what you are. What you are is enough, more than enough. And if I ever made you feel like you aren't…"

"You didn't. You haven't." He just made her want to be better, made her want to be the person he already thought he was.

"You shouldn't ever feel like your scars are ugly. They're not. They're badges of honor, Kate, signs that you suffered but also that you survived, signs of all that you've overcome. So don't ever feel like they make you anything other than beautiful or that you need to hide them." He paused. "If anything, they only make me love you more."

Her breath hitched in her chest. Oh. He'd said it again. When there was no screaming, no pain. There was just him and the way he was looking at her that made her feel… beautiful.

And just the way he was looking at her provided the last impetus she needed to slide one hand around his neck and close the scant distance between them to press her lips to his. Softly, at first, but then his lips parted and the kiss exploded as he tugged her body in closer, fitting her body against his.

Her already half-naked body against his. She abruptly decided that taking off her shirt first had clearly been one of her best ideas yet as she tangled her fingers in his hair and molded herself against the hard strength of his body. His mouth was hot and wet and eager— _mmm, oh god_ —as he swallowed the soft moan that escaped her—and proceeded to kiss her some more. Oh and _there_ was all the passion, the restrained forcefulness, of their first kiss in a dark alley, the devastating heat and desire she'd been fantasizing about ever since.

His lips only left hers to scatter a trail of soft, damp kisses along her chin and down her neck, pausing to suck on her pulse point, making her gasp and tug on his hair to persuade him to reverse course. She wanted more, more of his drugging kisses, more of his hands on her body.

He resisted—annoying man—and had the nerve to lift his head—that was not what she wanted him to do. "Kate," he gasped, "what—are you—"

"Shut up and take me to bed, Castle."

His eyes, his expression, lit up with an odd combination of amazement, elation, and lust. "So hot when you're bossy."

Her impatient huff was cut off by his mouth as he kissed her again and then he was sliding his hands down past her butt to grip her thighs, lifting her until she automatically wrapped her legs around him, bringing her closer to where she wanted, needed to be.

And take her to bed, he did.

Mm, yeah, he really did.

And proceeded to show her with every kiss, every caress, of his lips and hands and tongue—god, yes, his tongue—that she was still beautiful, still sexy, and that he loved her.

Afterwards, Kate curled up contentedly within his encircling arms, her entire body feeling loose and languid, if a little tender in parts. Not quite sore, just… yeah, a little tender, some of those muscles hadn't needed to work quite like that in a while. Mm, added incentive to push harder at her physical recovery. Once she was really back to normal, it would allow her more freedom to get creative. He would like that.

Of course he'd already seemed to like just about everything she did. He'd liked it when she kissed his neck, let her teeth graze his Adam's apple, nuzzled a kiss into the little hollow of his clavicle. Liked it when she let her hands explore the muscles of his shoulders and his arms and his butt. Liked it when she'd tangled her fingers in his hair and urged him on, tugged him closer.

Just as she'd liked what he'd done to her. The way he'd pressed his lips to the scar between her breasts and run his lips and then his tongue along the surgical scar on her side, breathing words of quiet reassurance, of love, against her skin. The way he'd been so tender and so passionate as he explored, learned every inch of her body. The way he'd traced his lips down her stomach and along the curve of her hips and then further—oh, yeah, she'd definitely liked that part.

And geez, if she'd had any idea just how talented the man could be with his hands and his mouth, she should have dragged him into her bed years ago. The thought set off a bubble of mirth in her chest, a smile curving her lips.

The solid warmth of his body stirred and shifted against her with a low groan of something like reluctance that rumbled from his chest. "Mm, what's so funny?"

"Just thinking that I might have been an idiot."

"Hey, watch it, you're talking about the woman I love."

It was such a ridiculous, cheesy line but a little giggle escaped her anyway. (Giggling, her! What had this man done to her?) And god, he said it so easily, called her the woman he loved as if he said it every day, as if it was an immutable fact of life.

His hand slid over her skin in a lazy caress, setting off little sparks of warmth humming beneath her skin, before his hand came to rest half over her incision scar. She was fairly sure he hadn't intended it but it brought the spot that had tugged and burned so often this summer back to her consciousness. Her relaxed mood dissipated, even as she acknowledged that the heat of his hand over her scar felt good, better than any heating pad could be at easing the skin and muscles that felt a little tender from the unaccustomed exercise.

"I wish you could have seen me before," she mumbled against his skin. Was it vain of her to care so much, to not want to appear damaged in his eyes?

His hand shifted to fully cover her scar in response. "Kate, no," he soothed, brushing a kiss to her temple. "I love your scars."

She couldn't help but snort a little. "You can't."

"I can and I do. Your scars are beautiful, Kate, I promise you they are. They're proof of how strong you are and that makes me love them." He paused and then added with a change of tone, "And if it makes you feel any better, I did see you before, that time your apartment exploded and you were naked."

She choked on a sound that was half a gasp and half a sputter, swatting him. "Castle! I told you not to look!"

"Ow!" He caught her hand in his. "I was trying to save your life so it wasn't like I planned to see you naked. And if it makes you feel any better, I stopped looking once you told me not to."

"Yeah, you'd better have," she muttered but couldn't muster up any real annoyance. She'd always known he must have at least caught a glimpse of her when he'd burst into her old apartment, had pushed it out of her mind because there had been more pressing issues to be concerned with at the time. And if anyone she worked with had to see her naked, she'd rather it was Castle than anyone else.

And now she never wanted anyone but Castle to see her naked ever again anyway.

Something about the thought had a bubble of amusement welling up inside her and she found herself laughing and then he was laughing too.

She lifted her head to look at his laughing face, loving the familiar brightness of his eyes, dancing with humor, completely banishing any lingering shadows from the wounds this summer had inflicted on him, on them.

He lifted the hand he still held to press a kiss to the inside of her wrist, then her palm, so she curled her fingers in an automatic caress of his face. "You forgive me now?"

She pursed her lips, pretending to think about it. "Well, you did kind of save my life," she drew out slowly, "so I suppose… I'll let you make it up to me."

He pretended to growl, nipping teasingly at her hand. "Oh, I can make it up to you, Kate, just watch me."

"You think your habit of creepy staring is infectious?" she quipped.

He laughed again and tightened his arms around her, tugging gently to rearrange their bodies so she was once more half-sprawled over him. She suppressed a little grimace at the twinge in her side, her body apparently not quite liking the rather awkward way her torso had to torque before adjusting. She didn't know how but he seemed to sense it as she felt the increase of tension in his body, his amusement turning into a frown as he studied her.

"Kate, are you okay? I didn't hurt you, did I?"

She shook her head quickly, brushing her lips against his shoulder in reassurance, and then nestling there. "Did I sound like I was in pain earlier?" she asked lightly, wanting to dispel his concern. He hadn't hurt her, would never hurt her.

It worked. She could hear his smirk in his voice as he answered, "No, it sounded like you were begging for more."

She lifted her head and tried to narrow her eyes at him but judging from his expression, she failed miserably. "I was not begging."

(She might have been begging.)

"That's okay, Beckett, I know you can't get enough of me."

Egotistical ass.

"But that works out because I'm never going to be able to get enough of you either. I'm all yours," he added. (Damn it, how was she supposed to stay irritated with him when he said things like that?) "You're my muse and a writer can never have too much inspiration."

His muse. It wasn't the first time he'd called her that this summer but somehow, this time, it caught at her again, her mood abruptly shifting, sobering. His muse.

"Even if I can't be a cop again?" the words escaped her before she'd thought, making her freeze. Can't be a cop—shit. It was the lurking, lingering fear she hadn't really allowed herself to put into so many words and she abruptly understood, too, just why she was still so bothered by her scars. Because she was still a little bothered, in spite of all his words of reassurance.

It was because _Detective Beckett_ didn't have scars. Hadn't had scars. Not visible ones, at least.

She did. It wasn't about the scars, per se, not just vanity over the marks on her body that bothered her, was it? It was everything the scars represented to her. The visible, permanent reminder of what had happened to her, that she wasn't the same person she had been before. She wasn't… Detective Beckett anymore, didn't feel like the tough, competent homicide detective she had made herself become. All those years of toughening herself up, strengthening herself, not just physically but mentally, emotionally, to allow her to survive in the testosterone-laden environment of law enforcement, fending off sexist remarks from suspects and fellow cops, the armor she'd built up over the years to allow her to do her job. She had worked so hard, honed her body and her mind so she was always in control of any situation to the extent possible.

She had lost all of that from the moment she'd woken up in the hospital, her hard-won carapace of invulnerability gone, leaving only a pitiful invalid with a hole in her chest. Her control over her own life had been stripped away. And even now that she'd recovered physically, at least mostly, she still didn't feel like Detective Beckett. She might be regaining the control she'd had over her body but she was very far from having the control she was used to having, and she certainly couldn't control her nightmares, couldn't control the panic attacks or the flashbacks. And the scars were a part of that. The physical manifestation of the way she still startled and panicked at loud noises, how she couldn't even go to the grocery store in small town upstate New York without falling apart. And how was she ever supposed to go back to work, be a cop again, when she couldn't even handle a grocery run?

He reared up in surprise, dislodging her head from his shoulder, as he turned to stare at her. "Wait, what? Why on earth would you say you can't be a cop again?"

She had to fight not to squirm, try to at least seem stoic. She really didn't like this, exposing her vulnerabilities, her insecurities, like this, to him, of all people. She never wanted to seem less than extraordinary in his eyes.

But, she reminded herself, he'd already seen her at her worst, had comforted her after a nightmare, had seen her have a panic attack and soothed her. He'd seen her scars, both visible and not—and he still loved her. Still wanted her.

But even so, when she answered, she kept her eyes trained on his chest rather than his eyes (made easier by the fact that his bare chest was well worth looking at). "You know why, Castle. I couldn't even manage to go grocery shopping without falling apart. I can't be a cop if I'm freaking out at every loud noise or flash of light. I don't even know how I'll manage to go back to the city."

He sighed and then touched his fingers to the underside of her chin, gently nudging her face up so she perforce had to meet his eyes. She was expecting him to say something reassuring but instead all he did was lean down to kiss her, softly, lingeringly.

Mm, this was so much better than talking…

He broke off the kiss with an abruptness that startled her, lifting his head.

"Not frowning anymore, good."

What? She blinked and mentally shook off the lingering haze brought on by his kiss, focusing on his expression, the warmth in his eyes.

"Beckett, remember what I said earlier in the parking lot?"

Which one? She remembered every word he'd said, thought she always would.

"You're still healing, Beckett, that's all, and that's okay. It's a process; it'll take time and effort. But you will get better, I know you will. Because you don't give up, you don't back down, remember? You're… Invictus."

"Because my head is bloody, but unbowed?" she managed after a moment's thought.

And was rewarded by the approving smile he gave her. "Exactly, you have an unconquerable soul. And your ability to match literary allusions is so hot," he added and she couldn't quite help her faint smile. Leave it to Castle to be so impressed by a literary reference.

And also characteristically, he returned to the point, sobering. "You might still be wounded but you can do this, Beckett. Even today, you might have had a false start but you did manage to go grocery shopping afterwards, even if you did buy some disgustingly healthy items that have no place in any sane person's grocery cart," he digressed and she huffed a little, making a point of rolling her eyes for his benefit. "You'll manage, Beckett, and you won't have to do any of this alone. We can work on it together, one step at a time. If you want, we can go into town for coffee or something every day until you get more used to the sights and sounds of traffic and other noise and if and when you feel ready for it, we can drive out to Syracuse or Albany, get more of the big city feel to help you adjust."

A little smile curved her lips, her heart fluttering a little inside her, his return to solid practicalities moving her more than even his more flattering but also rather glib reassurances had. Not because she doubted his sincerity but after all, Castle was the man who believed in aliens and ghosts. But now, here, he was being realistic, had really put some thought into this, and she found it more comforting than even his earlier words. It wasn't just Castle's innate optimism having him look at her and her situation through rose-colored glasses but Castle, really believing in her, recognizing the work she would need to put in to get better and willing to stand beside her as she did.

And this, she thought rather fuzzily, was why she loved him. When she doubted, he believed—and she believed in him.

"What about the new Captain? Lanie told me she kicked you out."

He bridled a little in mock offense. "I only _let_ the new Captain kick me out because you were gone. I'm still friends with the Mayor, remember, and if I need to, I'll even call up the Governor."

"Even though the Governor's never heard of you?" she teased, remembering what Agent Fallon had said.

She knew he remembered it too as he made a face at her. "Oh, funny, Beckett, you think I can't get the Governor on the phone if I want to? I'm pretty sure a generous donation to his campaign funds would go a long way towards persuading him that I'm an indispensable asset to the work of the NYPD," he pontificated. (Amazing, how lofty he could sound even while lying stark naked in bed. Ooh, now that was a nice reminder...)

"Oh, you have assets, all right, but I'm not sure I'd call them indispensable," she drawled, deliberately twisting his words. He may not indispensable to the NYPD but to her, yeah, he kind of was. Not that she was going to tell him that. She traced idle patterns on his bare shoulder with her fingers, lines and squiggles and looping curlicues.

He gave a loud, entirely fake, scandalized gasp. "Katherine Beckett, I never!"

She snorted. "No, you _always_. You're the one who's spent the last three years trying to turn almost everything into an innuendo."

"That is so not true," he huffed. "I'll have you know I've been trying to make innuendos for a lot longer than just three years."

She laughed. "Oh, of course, my mistake."

He waggled his eyebrows at her. "And just say the word, Beckett, and I'll prove that my assets are indispensable to you. I—and my assets—are at your service."

Tempting, very tempting. She deliberately schooled her expression into sobriety. His ego didn't need any feeding. (She'd just take him up on that offer later.)

He relapsed to seriousness. "Anyway, I already told you, Beckett, I'm not going anywhere. Once you're ready to go back to work, I'll be right there with you. Partners, remember?"

He sounded—he really was—so confident, so certain. He didn't have any doubts about anything, either their continued partnership at work or their relationship outside of work. Whereas she found herself wishing, for one irrational moment, that they could just stay here in the cabin forever. It was so much easier, simpler—and safer—here. This little bubble of space and time where it was just the two of them. Without any of the complications of the real world, of having to deal with other people or her return to work or anything.

Of course it wasn't possible. Even she knew that after awhile, she would probably go stir-crazy with boredom and lack of purpose. And he had a life of his own to return to, a family.

"What about us? How will this work back in the city?" she found herself asking.

He blinked at her. "What about us?" he repeated. "We'll go back to working together in the precinct and then afterwards, I'll go back to your apartment with you or you can come to the loft and we'll spend time together outside of work too." He paused. "If that's what you want too."

"I want it," she assured him quickly, lifting a hand to cup his cheek. "I want this, Castle."

His expression eased into a faint smile as he turned his head to kiss her palm.

"What about Alexis? Will she be okay with me at the loft? I don't want to bother her or make it seem like I'm trying to come between you two."

She didn't know what Alexis thought about her right now. She knew that Alexis had joined forces with Martha earlier this summer to try to keep Castle from moping over his phone and she admitted that back then, at least, Alexis hadn't had any reason to think well of her. Castle tended to retreat outside or to his bedroom for his nightly phone calls to Alexis and Kate had been fine with giving him privacy to talk to his daughter but it meant she really didn't know what Alexis's opinion of all this would be. And if a relationship between her and Castle was going to work, Alexis needed to accept her.

Castle sighed a little and it was his turn to cup her cheek in his hand. "Kate, you and Alexis are the most important people in my life. Alexis knows that and she knows that it's been true for a long time now. And it's not like she doesn't know that I'm here with you now and she doesn't have a problem with it. Alexis will be fine with you coming over, I promise. We're going to be great."

She turned her smile into his hand, feeling some of her lingering uncertainties dissolve. He'd promised always and she trusted him. She knew him. This man, who was strong enough to hold her up when she needed it, not just out here in this small town, in her dad's cabin, but in the city too. This man, who could and would stand beside her in the battle. Who already had stayed beside her through multiple shootings, through explosions, through freezers and serial killers. She met his eyes, the steadfast, blue eyes she'd fallen in love with long before she'd been willing to admit it to herself, and felt a rush of confidence, of certainty, not only that their relationship could survive going back to the real world but also that she could be a cop again. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but sometime soon, she could and would be Detective Beckett again. And she'd have Castle beside her.

"Great, huh?" she teased. "You're so modest."

"Fine, to put it another way, I'll be there for you and you'll be there for me and we'll just dive into it together."

She let out a small laugh at the familiar words. "Did you just quote me at me?" (And hadn't part of her thought, even then, that Castle was the one she wanted to dive in with?)

Because she did want to dive into it with him. Maybe she wasn't fixed, wasn't in the best state to be starting a relationship but looking at him now, with his arms around her, she couldn't even imagine trying to do this without him. He made things better, easier, and somehow, amazingly, he seemed to feel the same way about her so maybe, whatever healing they each still needed to do, they could do it together.

"You want a writer's credit?"

"Maybe. You can pay me royalties in kisses."

He pulled an exaggerated face. "That's an exorbitant price to charge. I'll have to think about it."

Oh, sure. Ridiculous man.

She poked his chest, trying (and failing) to scowl at his beleaguered tone, and he laughed, leaning down until she parted her lips in expectation of his kiss only for him to veer at the last moment to peck the tip of her nose instead.

She wrinkled her nose at him. "Stop teasing and just kiss me, Castle."

He did but it was barely more than a brush of his lips before he lifted his head to smirk at her. "There, how's that?"

She really wished she could frown at him for that but damn it, he was kind of adorable when he smirked like this, his hair flopping over his forehead, his eyes dancing with mischief. He just looked so… happy right now that it made her heart stutter and then feel buoyant with reflecting joy. She had hurt him this summer but right now, she was making it up to him for all the hurt she'd ever caused him and she made a silent promise that she would keep on making it up to him, would try to make him smile like this every day.

"I love you."

Had she said that aloud? Oh, she had, the words just spilling from her lips without thought. And for all the waiting, the words came surprisingly easily. Whatever her flickering uncertainties, she didn't doubt this, the way she felt about him. And if she'd thought he looked happy before, it was nothing compared to the way his eyes and his expression lit up now. His smile could have illuminated the entire world.

Then he was kissing her, kissing her for real, long and deep and thoroughly, as he kissed her as if it was the last time and the first time all rolled into one.

It wasn't until later, much later, that he finally responded in words. Later, after he'd pressed her into the bed (again), after she'd rolled her hips against his, making him gasp her name against the skin of her throat, after he'd rolled over, beached, on the bed and she lay curled up over him, sated and deliciously exhausted.

His fingers traced idle, caressing patterns up along her spine. "I love you, Kate," he breathed against her ear.

The same words he'd said at the start of this terrible, wonderful summer, the words that had haunted her through all the weeks they were apart. But now, this time, she could hear them without panicking. This time, she only smiled against his skin and said the words back. "I love you too, Castle."

 _~The End~_

A/N 2: Thank you, everyone, who's read, reviewed, followed, or added this fic to their favorites. Every single one is appreciated more than I can say.


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